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Ti V

■

MG OF ROMANCE, BUT

By Helen O'Connell
our Happy Birthday Star

*>hs» $3*

MVDT *•■%*! M ADPC See Al' Your Favorites in Person
fVlTKI ana fVlAKV^t in Full Poge Living Portraits

lete Radio N

BACKSTAGE WIFE

A few of the many other
distinguished women who,

like Mrs. Hixon, "enjoy
Camel's marvelous flavor"

Mrs. Nicholas Biddle, Philadelphia

Mrs. Gail Borden, Chicago

Irs. Powell Cabot, Boston

Mrs. Charles Carroll, Jr., Maryland

Mrs. J. Gardner Coolidge 2nd, Boston

Mrs. Anthony J. Drexel 3rd,

Philadelphia

Mrs. John Hylan Heminway, New York

Mrs. Brooks Howard, Baltimore
Mrs. Edward M. Mcllvain, Jr., New York

Miss Polly Peabody, New York

Mrs. Rnfue Paine Spalding III, Pasadena

Mrs. Oliver DeGray Vanderbilt III,

Cincinnati

Mrs. Kiliaen M. Van Rensselaer,

Neiv York

It. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, Winston-Salem. N. C.

By burning 25% slower than the
average of the 4 other largest-selling
brands tested — slower than anv ol'them
— Camels also give von a smoking phis
equal, on the average, to

£ EXTRA SMOKES
PER PACK!

^Camels are

milder than any

other cigarette

I've ever

smoked!'4

MRS. ALEXANDER HIXON

Pasadena, California

MRS. HIXON, whose husband is
in the Army, takes a deep in-
terest in United States defense work
and social welfare movements. For
relaxation, she rides . . . plays golf
. . . studies modern art. Working or
playing, young Mrs. Hixon finds a
lot of pleasure in smoking Camels.
"Less nicotine in the smoke means
a milder smoke," says Mrs. Hixon.
"So Camels are my favorite. Mild as
can be— really gentle to my throat—
and full of marvelous flavor! I sim-
ply never tire of smoking Camels."

THE SMOKE'S THE THING!

The Smoke of Slower-Burning; Camels gives you
EXTRA MILDNESS, EXTRA COOLNESS, EXTRA FLAVOR and

2o^ Less Nicotine

than the average of the four other largest-selling cigarettes tested — less than
any of them— according to independent scientific tests of the smoke itself

TVRKfs»J.y>OMESTic

-CIGARETTES

LIGHT UP A CAMEL and see what it's like to smoke
the slower-burning cigarette— the cigarette that gives
you less nicotine in the smoke, the cigarette that gives
you real mildness.Yes, according to independent scien-
tific tests, the smoke of slower-burning Camels contains
28% less nicotine ! (See statement above.) Whether you
smoke quite often, or just occasionally, it's nice to
know that with Camel cigarettes— so grand-tasting and
full of flavor — you get less nicotine per puff. Extra
mildness from the first puff through the last! Extra
flavor, too! Buy Camels by the carton— the thrifty way!

ame

Tfie ei^areite of
Cost/ier Ibiaeeos

nan, rnrs,i

> -ii Kit' ST ti : ' :3 ^<l \--T0 '-.P??* <@M V7-. »

is fcaa '%j \ii*'.' b

TVie onatomtcoZ juxtaposition of two orbicu-
laris oris muscles in a state of contraction.

DR. HENRY GIBBONS

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:

The sure sweet cement, glue, and tune of love.

ROBERT HERRICK

A kiss, when all is said, what is it?
... a rosy dot |

Placed on the "i" in loving; 'tis a, secret
Told to the mouth instead of to the ear.

EDMOND ROSTAND

The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a

cannon, but Us echo lasts a great deal longer.

O. W. HOLMES

Kissing don't last: cookery do.

GEORGE MEREDITH
Lord! I wonder what fool U was that first
invented kissing. swift

And when my lips meet thine,
Thy very soul is wedded unto mine.

J H. H. BOYESEN

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me:
Sav I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me. "='<« HUNT

A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this.
To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips. TENNYSON

Excerpts from "The Home Book of Quotations"by
Burton Stevenson; Dodd, Mead & Co., Pubhshers

HETHER it's the kiss given in
the first fine rapture of love's dis-
covery, the kiss you give your hus-
band of twenty years as he rushes out in
the morning, or the kiss of mother and son
— don't be careless. Remember . . . nothing
is so intimate or so revealing as a kiss.

FOR LOVE'S SAKE

So — for love's sake! — don't ever be guilty
of offending HIM with halitosis (bad breath).
It freezes love . . . yet anyone may have it at
some time or other.

Wouldn't any woman be foolish to chance
losing this regard unnecessarily when it's
often so easy to make breath sweeter, purer,
with Listerine Antiseptic?

Halitosis is sometimes due to systemic con-

ditions. Usually, however, say some author-
ities, it is caused by the fermentation of tiny
food particles in the mouth. For that condi-
tion, a good rinsing of the mouth with refresh-
ing Listerine Antiseptic morning and night
works sweet wonders!

Listerine Antiseptic halts such fermenta-
tion, then overcomes the odors it causes. Your
breath becomes sweeter, less likely to offend.
Use Listerine Antiseptic as a mouth rinse
night and morning.

r i *

"P.S." TO MEN: Don't imagine you're im-
mune from halitosis! (Who is?) Keep Listerine on
hand — make it a morning and nightly ritual! Al-
ways remember to rinse your mouth with this delight-
ful, breath-sweetening antiseptic deodorant before any
important business engagement — or your date with
Her. It pays. Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo.

LET LISTERINE LOOK AFTER YOUR RREATH

JULY, 1941

JULY, 1941 illlffffl% 4 t^ VOL 16« No- 3

ERNEST V. HEYN FRED R. SAMMIS

Executive Editor BELLE landesman. assistant editor Editor

CONTENTS

Forgive Me Dearest 8

A story of temptation
I Sing of Romance, But — Helen O'Connell 10

A famous band singer tells what her life really is like

Backstage Wife Alice Eldridge Renner 12

As a complete novel — the romance that has thrilled a million listeners

Are You Really In Love? Virginia Lane 17

Give yourself Nan Grey's heart test

How We Met 18

Broadcast from real life — a bitter sweet story of two sisters

Myrt and Marge 23

Your favorites in person in full page living portraits

Young Widder Brown Elizabeth B. Petersen 28

Ellen turns her back on love

Darling, How You Lied Ethelyn Atha 30

The new sentimental song hit as sung by Buddy Clark

Portia Faces Life Norton Russell 32

The story of a woman's courage

Keep The Kitchen Cool \ . . . Kate Smith 36

Recipes dedicated to summer menus

Superman in Radio 40

Another thrilling episode in the life of a super hero

What Do You Want To Say? 3

What's New From Coast to Coast Dan Senseney 4

Gallery of Buddy Clark 22

Facing the Music Ken Alden 38

Inside Radio — The Radio Mirror Almanac 41

Summer-Tan Beauty Dr. Grace Gregory 56

•
ON THE COVER — Helen O'Connell, singing star of Jimmy Dorsey's NBC program

Kodachrome by Charles P. Seawood

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR, published monthly by MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, INC., Washington and South Avenues, Dunellen,
New Jersey. General Offices: 205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. Editorial and advertising offices: Chanin Building, 122 East 42nd Street, New
York. O. J. Elder, President; Haydock Miller. Secretary; Chas. H. Shattuck, Treasurer; Walter Hanlon, Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221
North LaSalle St., C. H. Shattuck, Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Francisco, 420 Market Street. Hollywood: 7751 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews,
Manager. Entered as second-class matter September 14, 1933, at the Post Office at Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Price
per copy In United States and Canada 10c. Subscription price in United States and Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland S1.00 a year. In Cuba,
Mexico, Haiti, Dominican Republic, Spain and Possessions, and Central and South American countries, excepting British Honduras, British, Dutch
and French Guiana, $1.50 a year; all other countries $2.50 a year. While Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings are submitted at the owner's
risk, every effort will be made to return those found unavailable if accompanied by sufficient first-class postage, and explicit name and address.
Contributors are especially advised to be sure to retain copies of their contributions; otherwise they are taking unnecessary risk. Unaccepted letters
for the "What Do You Want to Say?" department will not be returned, and we will not be responsible for any losses of such matter contributed.
All submissions become the property of the magazine. (Member of Macfadden Women's Group.) The contents of this magazine may not be
printed, either wholly or In part, without permission. Copyright, 1941, by the Macfadden Publications, Inc. Title trademark registered in U. S.
Patent Office. Printed in the U. S. A. by Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J.

2 l^&fel.i ©&*»'** * *>> telWl^lHI* RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

FEB 5 jgg»

What do You
want to

FIRST

As a child, history for roe was a
dreaded subject, and I was most dis-
interested in civic affairs. Thanks to
"No Politics," the Saturday afternoon
program which features men in Wash-
ington, I am getting a clear under-
standing of the things we should
know, and it is presented in an en-
tertaining way — much more attrac-
tively than those dreaded childhood
history days. — Mrs. David Hedges,
Danbury, Conn.

SECOND

There was a time when the press
was called the moulder of public
opinion, but now, in my humble
opinion, I believe the press must re-
linquish that honor to the Radio.
Newspapers are too often read with-
out any trace of emotion, somewhat
in a routine manner, but how many
of us can deny that we are unaffected,
regardless of political affiliation when
we listen to that great master voice
of Radio, the President of the United
States! — John Benkovic, Steelton, Pa.

THIRD

Our twin boys, now seven, have
been noisy and boisterous ever since
they were born. It is often hard to
keep from quietly going mad, with-
out making them feel dominated and
frustrated. But for the last year,
things have been getting better. They
are constantly adding radio programs
that they like and keep as still as
mice while they listen. — Mary Ruth
Baron, La Crescenta, Calif.

FOURTH

Your criticism in Radio Mirror, on
Master of Ceremonies Joe Kelly, of
the Quiz Kids program, indicates
that you have never had any expe-
rience in handling children. Don't
you realize that the way to get the
best out of children is to do it just
the way Mr. Kelly does it?

The general opinion, to a very large
degree, is that he "makes" the pro-
gram, as he gets down to their level
and is not the stilted, teacher type. —
Mrs. L. W. Buckley, River Forest, 111.
(Continued on page 71)

NOTICE

Because of space requirements, RADIO
MIRROR announces the discontinuance of its
What Do You Want To Say? contest depart-
ment. The editors want to thank readers for
their contributions. They invite further letters
of criticism and comment from you, to be
submitted to this magazine on the understand-
ing that they are to receive no payment for
their publication, but are offered merely for
their general interest to the radio public.

JULY. 1941

Mum is

quick,
safe, sure!

SAVES TIME • CLOTHES • CHARM!

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vanishes quickly unless you prevent the for-
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SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS GIRLS have this red
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never let daintiness down!" Gentle, creamy
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DINNER DATE TONIGHT? Surprise invita-
tions are fun ! Carry a purse-size jar of Mum
for your "five o'clock freshener" and go
straight from shopping or business, confident
that Mum protects your charm!

HELP ROMANCE ALONG! Romance ... how
precious to find, how easy to lose through one
careless fault ! Popular girls, girls who dance
every dance, never risk offending. Let Mum
be the safeguard of your charm, too !

Mum prevents underarm odor all day!

A DOZEN AIDS to charm may crowd your
bathroom shelves. But not one is
more important than the underarm deo-
dorant you use.

And today, with so many deodorants to
choose from, isn't it significant that more
women in offices, in hospitals, in schools
and at home prefer Mum. Mum is pleas-
ant to use— prevents odor instantly and
does it without stopping perspiration.

Smart women never trust a bath alone
to bring them lasting daintiness. Under-
arms need special care to prevent the for-
mation of future odor . . . that's why so
many women use Mum every single day.
A quick dab under each arm and under-
arms are safe all day or all evening long.

Safe, dependable Mum makes you safe
from the risk of ever offending. It's a fa-
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MUM IS SAFE. A gentle, soothing cream
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• • •

FOR SANITARY NAPKINS-Thousands of
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Try safe, dependable Mum this way, too!

Mum

TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION

Walt Disney gave a party for
the famous Quiz Kids on their
visit to Hollywood. Right, in
his sound effects room, Gloria
Jean sings for (left to right),
Gerard Darrow, Jack Lucal (be-
hind Donald Duck) , Walt, Joan
Bishop, Richard Williams, Cyn-
thia Cline and Claude Brenner.
Below, Bing Crosby's boys were
there, Lindsay, Dennis, Philip.

THE month's palm for real loyalty
goes to Fibber McGee and Molly,
who rejected an offer from a new
sponsor at a substantial raise in
salary. They were grateful to their
old sponsor who put them on the air
in the first place and stuck by them
during the first few months when it
seemed that their broadcasts were
doomed to failure. Now that they're
up at the top, they've reversed the
situation and are sticking by the

sponsor.

* * *

Princeton University wanted to give
Arturo Toscanini an honorary degree
this spring, but the grand old man of
music declined the honor, saying that
because of "world affairs" he was
making as few appearances at public
functions as possible. Toscanini and
NBC couldn't get together again, so
he won't be leading the network's
symphony orchestra next season.
There's talk that CBS may grab him,
but nothing definite.

* * *

A radio version of the Broadway
stage hit, "Claudia," will take the
Kate Smith time Friday nights while
Kate enjoys her annual summer vaca-
tion {which isn't entirely a vacation,
because she plans to continue her
noonday talks, which have hit an all-
time high of popularity this season).
"Claudia" is a comedy about a young
married couple, with Dorothy Mc-
Guire and Donald Cook in the roles
they originated on the stage.

WHAT'S NEW FROM
COAST to COAST

get around the spring of the year:
Ted Straeter, Kate Smith's vocal
chorus leader, and Dorothy Lewis, ice-
skating champ, who may get married
any day; announcer Ben Grauer and
Mildred Fenton, script editor in a big
advertising agency; songstress Dinah
Shore and Alan Grieve, who is one
of Uncle Sam's private soldiers at Fort
Slocum, N. Y.

* * *

They're saying that Ted Husing will
stray from his old stamping-grounds,
CBS, to announce the prizefights on
the Mutual network. . . Also that
Mutual stations will be the first to
start broadcasting ASCAP tunes
again. * * *

Francia White's thanking her spon-
sors for the chance to sing the leading
role in "Naughty Marietta" in Holly-
wood and San Francisco. Francia's
contract calls for her to be on the
Telephone Hour over NBC every
Monday night — but when she went to
the sponsors and explained how much
she wanted to accept the Los Angeles
Municipal Light Opera Company's
offer to star her in the stage produc-
tion, they granted her a two-broad-
cast leave of absence.

* * *

Remember announcer Norman Bro-
kenshire? He's now on the staff of a
local station in New York City.

» » *

CHARLOTTE, N. C— The Tennes-
see Ramblers have been singing cow-

Victims of that romantic feeling you By DAK SENSENEY

boy and hill country songs for
fourteen years, and they're still going
strong, although only one member of
the original quartet is still with the
group. Right now they're being heard
every day over Charlotte's station
WBT, in between Hollywood jobs.
The most recent of several movies
they've appeared in was "Riding the
Cherokee Trail," starring Tex Ritter.

"Horse Thief" Harry Blair is the one
who has been with the Ramblers since
the act was organized in Pittsburgh
fourteen years ago. Harry comes from
New Martinsville, West Virginia, and
besides being a Rambler has worked
in steel factories, glass factories, and
on road construction jobs. He's a
skilled mechanic, specializes in radio
construction, and can usually be found
either watching the wheels go 'round
at the radio station or taking his own
radio receiver apart. As to the episode
in which he gained his now-famous
nickname, he won't talk.

"Montana Jack" Gillette, who plays
the violin and many queer musical
novelties, has been with the Ramblers
seven years. He began his career
when he was eighteen by leaving his
home town, Providence, R. I., to play
in a dance band. He's thirty-three
years old now, and has toured in
vaudeville and with a unit CBS sent
on the road once, composed of people
like Stoopnagle and Budd, Tony
Wons, Vaughn De Leath and Little
Jack Little. The most fun Jack gets
out of life is tinkering with novelty
musical instruments and finding ways
to coax music (Continued on page 6)

RADIO AND TELEVISION 3VURHOR

THIS 019 PHOTO
OF ME IS ©OIN^

our

OF MY ALBUM

Don't Let Ugly, Poor-Fitting Eye-Glasses
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experience with his eyes. The idea of wearing glasses was
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experimenting upon himself, he immediately started upon a
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The essence of their findings is contained in Mr. Macf ad-
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If you do not wear glasses, but feel that your eyes are failing,
then find out how vision may be strengthened without the
use of glasses.

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JULY, 1941

Olivia DeHavilland and Charles Winninger as they appeared on a recent
CBS Screen Guild Theatre program. Olivia really can play the violin.

( Continued
out of things no one else would think
of using for the purpose. Besides the
violin and trumpet, he plays the fol-
lowing so-called instruments: saw,
balloon, musical bass drum, bicycle
pump, and "poobaphone," which is a
kind of slip horn he invented himself
while he was playing with Louis Pri-
ma's band in 1928.

"Curly" Campbell plays many types
of stringed instruments and sings the
baritone parts in the trio. He's twen-
ty-nine years old and was born in
Belew's Creek, N. C. That's near
Winston -Salem, the big tobacco mar-
ket, and he spent his boyhood raising
the tobacco plant. He still does, on
his big farm in North Carolina.

"Tex" Martin, who plays the bass

from page 4)
fiddle and hot guitar, doesn't come
from Texas any more than Montana
Jack comes from Montana. He was
born in Chenoa, Illinois, twenty-six
years ago, and before joining the
Ramblers traveled all over the coun-
try with different bands. At one time
he was a featured soloist with a
Spanish orchestra. "Tex" is a great
lover of baseball and a fine pitcher
himself, as well as a good swimmer
and high diver.

The Ramblers have written their
own songs for years, and recently
compiled a book containing the words
and music of twenty of their most
popular numbers. Besides broad-
casting on WBT they make best-sell-
ing records for Bluebird.

The monthly report from our style
scout says that Ruth Bailey, smart
young .society actress who plays Rose
Kransky in The Guiding Light, gets
the special award for the trickiest of
lapel ornaments. It's a tiny living
potted cactus, a souvenir of Ruth's re-
cent trip to Florida. She waters it
with an eye-dropper. Muriel Brem-
ner — Frederika Lang of The Guiding
Light — wins an A-plus style rating
with her new straw hat, tiny and
close-fitting and pure white in color.
It is gayly decorated with scarlet pop-
pies and yards of navy blue maline
veiling, and she wears it with a navy
blue suit and a chubby scarf of blue
fox. Irma Glen, NBC organist, offers
the prize idea for amateur gardening
wear. Her blue denim overall set con-
sists of three-quarter-length slacks
and a matching coat made in coolie
style. The suit is trimmed with an
edging of red bandanna around the
cuffs and the slashed pockets. On
extra warm days Irma plans to shed
the coat and substitute a bandanna
bra, matching the trimming.

PITTSBURGH, Pa.— A year ago
Rosemay Barck was a Junior student
at the University of Helsingfors, in
Finland. Today she is the newest
member of the dramatic staff of sta-
tion KQV, in Pittsburgh, and has had
the thrill of acting in a broadcast play
which she herself wrote.

Rosemay came to America as the
successful applicant for a scholarship
offered by Pennsylvania College for
Women in Pittsburgh to some Finnish
student. She left her war-torn coun-
try on October 11, 1940, sailing to the
United States by way of Iceland on a
Finnish freighter, the Veli-Ragnar.
Soon after she entered the Pennsyl-
vania College for Women her jour-
nalism instructor assigned each mem-
ber of the class the task of writing an
original play for radio.

Rosemay's play was about Finland
and the reaction of Finland's young
people to the war. Its title was "They
Did Not Want. to Die," and it was so
dramatic that the College Work-Shop
chose it for production over KQV,
casting Rosemay herself in the lead-
ing role. As the result of her dramatic
ability, her pleasing accent and her
knack for writing, KQV offered her a
job on its dramatic staff.

Only twenty-three years old, Rose-
may is an accomplished linguist,
speaking Swedish, English, and Ger-
man, besides her native tongue. Her
knowledge of German came in handy
when she played a German officer's
wife in a play specially written for a
Greek War Relief program broadcast
over KQV in April. She will graduate
from Pennsylvania College for Wo-
men this June, with a Bachelor of
Arts degree. Until August she plans
to remain with KQV, but then she
will go back to Helsingfors and study
there for a Master of Arts degree.

Her parents are still living in Hel-
singfors, and she has two brothers who
served in the Finnish army during the
war with Russia. Rosemay herself
served as secretary to Leland Stowe
and three British war correspondents
throughout the Russian campaign in
Finland.

* * *

Ted Collins leaned back in his office
chair the other day and told me he
may go to Hollywood this summer to
produce a movie. Ted's an ardent
movie fan — so much so he doesn't be-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

lieve television will ever get any-
where because it falls so far short of
the expert standards set by Holly-
wood.

* * *

Mrs. Ollie Andrews, mother of the
Andrews Sisters, is branching out as
a business woman. A few months ago,
partly for fun and partly to remind
folks that her daughters were in the
movie, "Buck Privates," she made a
clown doll, dressed it up like an army
rookie, named it "Buck Private," and
sent it to Fort Dix. The doll was
such a hit that now she's planning to
make it in large quantities for sale.

Haven MacQuarrie, Your Marriage
Club master of ceremonies, is respon-
sible for the new slogan adopted by
the city of Omaha. When Your Mar-
riage Club, touring around the coun-
try, did a broadcast from the Nebraska
metropolis, Haven used the phrase
"The Great Outpost of the East and
West" in his opening speech. The
Chamber of Commerce liked it so well
they grabbed it and had it printed on
all their stationery.

* * *

It could only happen in radio: When
Genevieve Rowe was the singing star
of the Johnny Presents program, her
contract forbade her to accept any
other commercial assignment. How-
ever, she was on the unsponsored Gay
Nineties Revue under the name of
Jenny Lynn, and when that program
got a new sponsor she was signed up
with the rest of the cast under the
false name. Then Johnny Presents
changed its formula and there was no
singing spot on it for Genevieve. Thus,
a well-known singer's only network
program now is one on which she ap-
pears under an assumed name, Jenny
Lynn.

* * *

PHILADELPHIA — When Roger
Williams, station KYW's tenor soloist,
first took an audition he was so scared
that he opened his mouth and not a
sound came out. But that was in 1929,
and Roger has acquired enough poise
and experience since to make him one
of Philadelphia's most popular stars.

Roger has been singing over KYW
since 1935, averaging ten programs a
week. Besides his radio work, he
appears per- (Continued on page 75)

Ed Letson sings and broadcasts
the news over KDYL, Salt Lake.

You'll find a Thrilling Promise of
Loveliness in the Camay

MILDSOAP'DIET!

Photograph by David Berns

This lovely bride is Mrs. George J. Langley, Jr., Bronxville, N. Y. "The Camay 'Mild-
Soap' Diet has done so much for my skin," says Mrs. Langley. "I know it has helped
me to look more beautiful. I advise every woman who wants a lovelier skin to try it."

Even girls with sensitive skin can
profit by exciting beauty idea —
developed from advice of skin spe-
cialists, praised by lovely brides!

SO MANY WOMEN cloud their beauty
through improper cleansing . . . use a
soap not as mild as a beauty soap should
be. "My skin is so responsive to the
Camay 'Mild-Soap' Diet" says this lovely
bride. "It seems so much fresher-looking!'

Mrs. Langley is so right. Skin special-
ists recommend a regular cleansing rou-
tine with a fine mild soap. And Camay
is milder by actual test than 10 other
popular beauty soaps. That's why we say
-"Go on the 'Mild-Soap' Diet."

Every single day, twice a day, give your
skin Camay's gentle cleansing care. Be
constant— put your entire confidence in
Camay. And in a few short weeks you
may hope to see a lovelier you.

THE SOAP OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

Camay is milder by actual recorded test — in tests against ten
other popular beauty soaps Camay was milder than any of them!

Go on the
CAMAY
MILD-
SOAP"
DIET!

Work Camay's milder lather
over your skin, paying special
attention to nose, base of the
nostrils and chin. Rinse and then
sixty seconds of cold splashings.

Then, while you sleep, the tiny
pore openings are free to func-
tion for natural beauty. In the
morning— one more quick ses-
sion with this milder Camay.

JULY, 1941

At the broadcast, Linda was conscious only of
his dark eyes, deep and burning, of his romantic
voice speaking of love— offering temptation to a
beautiful woman who was hungry for admiration

AT LAST you are asleep, George.
/A The room is very quiet now.
J * All the words and tears have
faded into nothing in the night. I
should be there beside you, asleep,
too. But I cannot sleep.

I have a strange feeling that I
must put it all down, as it hap-
pened, so you can read it and know
all the things you don't know now.
Being a doctor, you'll understand
better than I do, why I have to do
this. All I know is that I must tell
you.

Where shall I begin — the day I
met Les? I told you about that the
same day. Do you remember? No,
how could you remember. You
were so tired when you came home,
you could barely keep your eyes
open long enough to say hello.

The day I met Les. That was the
day I returned the corrected proofs
for the second edition of your book
to the publishers. I did that in the
morning and after it was done, I
felt sort of at loose ends. I'd been
to the beauty parlor the day before
and I couldn't get hold of Julie or
Helene, so finally, I decided to have
an extravagant lunch and go to a
matinee. I felt like indulging
myself.

The restaurant in the hotel was
full. I could have gone somewhere
else, but I chose to wait in the lobby
until there was a table for me. I
didn't have anything better to do.
Besides, I'd always liked that hotel,
with its luxurious atmosphere and
the smart, glamorous people who
go there.

As I was sitting there, one of the
most strikingly beautiful women
I've ever seen came toward me, her
hand outstretched. "Linda, darling!"
she said. "You haven't changed a
bit. How are you?"

It was Kathy Andrews. But so
changed. You remember her, George
—one of my sorority sisters at col-
lege. I think you once said about
her that she wouldn't have an easy
time in life, that she'd always be
struggling for something she didn't
have. And I think I laughed at
you and scolded you for trying to
impress me with your wisdom. Now,
I know you were right.

Even that day, I noticed some-
thing tense about her, a sort of

brittleness. Everything about her
was too perfect to go very deep.
Her eyes were brilliant and quick
and restless. She was telling me
about what she'd been doing since
I last saw her and the words
tumbled and sparkled much more
than they need have.

Not that she hasn't had an ex-
citing life. It sounded like one of
those unbelievable movie stories.
Kathy, starting as a stenographer,
then writing, then acting on the
stage and radio, and ending up by
marrying one of the vice presidents
of a radio network. All this in four,
short years. I couldn't help feeling a
little commonplace and dull, listen-
ing to her.

Suddenly, a man was standing
before us and saying, "I'm terribly
sorry, Kathy. I was held up at a
rehearsal."

Kathy's eyes darted up at him,
then back at me. There was an
awkward silence, then Kathy in-
troduced us, very formally.

"Linda, may I present Mr. Cava-
naugh? Mr. Cavanaugh, Mrs.
Burrey." She stressed the Mrs. just
a little.'.

I smiled up at him quite casually.
And then, surprisingly, I was con-
scious only of a pair of dark eyes,

deep and burning, and the feeling
that I was slowly sinking into their
depths.

"If you've got to broadcast at
three, we'd better have our lunch,
Les," Kathy said. Her voice was
sharp and cut through the strange
fuzziness in my head. Les Cava-
naugh smiled.

"Won't you have lunch with us?"
he asked me.

Thoughtlessly, I said yes. That
it was a mistake I discovered as soon
as we sat down. Kathy was irritated.
All through lunch, she insisted on
talking to me. She rattled on and
on about the things we'd done at
college. (Continued on page 52)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

'mc/PfeLA

"S-eorge, believe me," I said. "You've got to
believe me, darling. I never loved him, never.
I love you. I never want to see him again."

JULY, 1941

I was eager to get »~*-™?S£S& ^S
noticed the change in me, ta* . I rtoppe tt
the new frock I'd been admiring in the winno

"SK mXrTSched by the magic ., her «rst

jfu . ^.ited »h B^-sacas*

acting on a crazy sort of impulse, aewucu

t°SiLhd0Mother and Dad were already at dinner
when I came into the dining room. They all looked
S me, unbelieving, almost, but it was Grace who said
the words I had waited too long to hear:
"Why, Jeannie, you're pretty— really P^tty-
I tried to hide the blush I felt burn my cheeks. And
finally the spotlight of family curiosity left me when
Grace began to talk about Jerry and the fun they d
had together the night before. I followed her upstairs
after supper to help her dress. She begged me to tell
her about the man who had made me turn into a
glamour girl overnight. She wouldn't believe me when
I tried to explain. Then I met each of her questions
with a knowing smile and, at last, she gave up.

As I watched her deftly apply her lip-stick, I asked
her where she and Jerry were going. I was a little
surprised by her answer:

"Oh, I'm not seeing Jerry tonight. He had to leave
town for a few days so he's sending around an old
friend, Hal Worley, to keep an eye. on me. I've never
met him, but from the way Jerry talked, he must be
terrific."

I wanted to ask her more about Hal but just then we
heard the doorbell ring. I ran down to answer it and,
trying desperately to sound casual, asked the tall, red-
headed young man outside to come in. He smiled and,
in his deep warm voice, said:
"I'm Hal Worley."

I only nodded and said, "I know." His face, snub-
nose, freckles and all, fell a little:

"Oh — and I thought it would be a surprise. You're
not at all as Jerry described you."
"Well, it's little wonder — "

"No, ma'am . . . Not a bit. Jerry ought to get himself
a pair of glasses."

"I don't think he really needs them. You see . . ."
But he wouldn't let me finish. "I see — but he doesn't.
Why he didn't come anywhere near doing justice to
you."

"But Jerry didn't . . ."

"Jerry didn't do a lot of things. But we're going to
make up for that tonight, aren't we, Grace?"

So Hal thought I was Grace, yet his compliments
were meant for me! But I shook my head:
"I don't think so."

"You're not angry at me for calling you Grace, are
you? After all, I feel as though I've known you for
years. Do you realize that ever since I've known Jerry,
he's done nothing but talk about you. It was Grace
this and Grace that. I'm afraid I got a little tired of it
after a while."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "I shouldn't wonder."
"As a matter of fact, when I rang your bell tonight,
I had my doubts."

The experience of talking and laughing with a man
who seemed to like me immediately was so new and
thrilling that I determined to let the deception continue
for a few more minutes. After all, I was harming no
one with my trifling masquerade— and this flattering
small-talk meant so much to me. More than I had ever
realized.

"And now?"

"Well, now I'm looking forward to a wonderful
evening."

Hal's tone was so sincere, so completely honest that
20

The words tumbled over each other as I pleaded

"Grace, please — let me take your place — tonight."

I tried again:

"You're making a mistake. I'm . . ."

Again he interrupted.

"No I'm not."

"Are you sure you want to take me out?"

"Can there be any doubt about it? Now, not another
word out of you, Grace. Just hurry and get your things
because I'll be holding my breath until you get back."

I ran up the steps and breathlessly burst in on Grace.
All ready to go, she had her hat in her hand. She
smiled when she noticed my excitement.

"Looks like he made quite an impression on you,
Jean. What's he like?"

I tried to tell her what had happened. She instantly
assumed, of course, that I had told Hal the truth before
I had come upstairs. But when I confessed that I had
never quite succeeded in doing that, she good-na-
turedly shrugged her shoulders and started down. I
stopped her before she could leave the room. The
impulse that had made me continue the masquerade
gripped me tightly. My words tumbled over each other
as I begged Grace to grant me the most important favor
I had ever asked.

"Grace, I've never asked you for anything before—-
but just this once, let me pretend I'm you! The moment
Hal walked into the house, something happened to me-
For the first time in my life, I didn't envy you all the
boys you know— all the dates you've had. Grace—

RADIO AND TELEVISION MH^O"

please — let me take your place. Please — just for
tonight!"

My heart stopped while I waited for Grace to answer.
Nothing had ever meant this much to me. I don't know
why. I had met the other men who had come to call
for Grace. None of them had made me tremble with
a wild excitement just by smiling at me. I had never
felt that I would shrivel up and die inside unless I
he.ard a man's deep, happy voice again.

Grace looked searchingly at me. She could see what
had happened. Without a word, she placed her bag
back on the dresser and put down her hat.

July, 1941

"Jeannie — he's all yours. But let me give you a little
advice — don't carry this masquerade too far. You might
find yourself involved in something that's way over
your head."

I was already at the door. But I turned for a second:
"Oh, Grace; — don't worry. I'll unmask the first chance
I get."

Her words followed me down the steps.

"Don't forget. Remember what happened to Cinder-
ella when she waited too long!"

But sitting beside Hal in his car I forgot everything.
Everything except the thought that I was where I
wanted to be. None of the parties and fun and men
I had missed meant anything to me now. I was glad —
so gloriously glad— that I had never kissed a man
before. Happy that the man's arms to guide me in the
dance steps I had so laboriously learned alone should
be Hal's. I couldn't tell him now that I wasn't Grace.
Perhaps he would feel that I had tricked him. Perhaps
he wouldn't understand. That was a mistake. A bad
mistake. But I was too young and inexperienced to
know that then.

Hal had tickets for the dance at the Country Club.
It was only a short drive from our house. Yet each
minute seemed to stretch out into a delicious eternity.
Outwardly, there was nothing unusual about the ride.
Hal talked a lot about Jerry. How they'd met in college
and roomed together and what a swell fellow my
"fiance" was. Bundled up in my own thoughts, I didn't
answer. They spun in rhythm with the whir of the tires
on the road. Intuitively I knew — just as something had
driven me to the beauty shop and the new dress — that
Hal must have known what I felt and felt it, too. There
was a magnetic pull of two personalities to each other.
It was as if the same electric current had passed
through us both at exactly the same time. I felt it when
I accidentally brushed Hal's hand and when he held
my arm to help me from the car.

As we went in the orchestra was playing a waltz. No
setting could have been more perfect. Candles flickered
gracefully on the small tables. The waxed floor glis-
tened and shone like yellow ice. We were shown to our
table and Hal ordered wine. His face, with the candle's
flame making odd shadows on it, looked strange as he
held up his glass and said:

"To you and Jerry, Grace."

With a recklessness I didn't know I possessed, I
smiled and whispered:

"No, to you and me, Hal. Just for tonight."

We sipped our wine and danced and talked. I had
never thought that happiness could come close enough
for me to reach out and touch it. It was a writer's love
story come to life — a dream that was as real and solid
as the white napery and the gleaming silverware. What
did we talk about? Why did we laugh so much? Why
did contentment fill our eyes like tears and like tears
seem to well up and spill over? I don't know. A man
and a girl in love should never know. I remember only
the beautiful magic of the moments. That thrill which
comes only once, the thrill of slipping into Hal's arms
for the first time when we danced.

The hours went by too quickly. I looked at my
watch. It was almost midnight. And then I remembered
Grace's last warning sentence— "remember what hap-
pened to Cinderella when she waited too long!" Had I
waited too long? I was suddenly afraid. I had gambled
with love and love was not meant for those who played
with it. I was silent and quiet and Hal, so kind and
considerate, was quick to notice it:

"What's the matter, Grace? Aren't you having fun?

"Oh Hal, I'm having so much fun. Are you?"

His smile was lopsided and it seemed to go with his
burnished hair and the (Continued on page 76)

She must hove sex appeal, lovely gowns and
a way with the customers. But what is
a famous band singer's life really like?
The answer is revealed in this true story

JIMMY DORSEY'S band is play-
ing in your home town. The
floor is crowded, the music is
gay, romantic, pulse-quickening. I
stand up and come to the micro-
phone to sing the chorus. Maybe
Bob Eberly is with me and we do
a duet. Some of you watch us as
we sing, some of you go on dancing.

And you wonder, I suppose, what
kind of a girl I am, what kind of a
life I lead when I'm out of the spot-
light. What my thoughts and dreams
are, what friends I have, whether or
not I'm in love . . .

It's funny, but do you know I
wonder almost precisely the same
things about you — you girls out
there on the floor, dancing in the
arms of your best boy-friends.

Your life is almost as strange to
me as mine is to you.

I'm twenty-one years old, and I've
been singing professionally .with
dance bands ever since I was barely
sixteen. I jumped straight from be-

ing not much more than a child into
a position in which all the respon-
sibility for my conduct was my own.
I grew up overnight.

I've had the thrill of wearing
beautiful clothes and singing with
one of the nation's most famous
dance orchestras, and I've had the
weariness of jolting all night long in
a stuffy bus. Every Friday night I
stand at the microphone in an NBC
playhouse, and I know that listeners
to Your Happy Birthday are hearing
me from coast to coast, and that
many of them are envying me. I
have the friendship of people whose
names are in every gossip-column —
and I know hours when I'm tired
and lonely.

It all adds up to a life that's ex-
citing and glamorous and difficult
and discouraging, by turns. But
what life isn't? I wouldn't ex-
change it for any other.

I was born in Lima, Ohio, but
when I was six we moved to Toledo.

I had one older sister, one younger
one, and a younger brother. When
I was thirteen I began to take tap-
dancing lessons, and in a few
months I was good enough to branch
out and begin teaching other pupils
not much older than I was. It was
only a hobby, though, just like my
elder sister Alice's singing. Dad
wasn't rich, by any means, but it
wasn't necessary for his children to
work.

Alice used to sing now and then
over a Toledo radio station, and at
country-club dances and other local
social affairs. If — as occasionally
happened — she had two chances to
work on the same night she'd let
me take her place on the less im-
portant job. We had fun — a couple
of kids indulging the exhibitionist
instinct that every youngster pos-
sesses.

Then, when I was fifteen, Dad fell
ill. Seriously, desperately ill. He
was in the hospital four months, and
all the family's savings were swept
right out of existence. Toward the
end of the four months we thought
he was going to be well, and Alice
and Glen Hardman were married.
Glen worked in the radio station
where Alice used to sing, and for a
long time they'd wanted to marry.
It seemed all right, we were all so
sure Dad was on his way to recov-
ery.

Two weeks after their marriage
Dad's illness took a turn for the
worse, and he died.

The day after his funeral I ac-
cepted a job singing with Jimmy
Richards' band. It had first been
offered to Alice.

I was numb. Things had hap-
pened so swiftly — one devastating
change in my life had followed so
fast on the heels of another — that I
didn't have time to feel or think. I

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

HELEN
O'C O N N E L L

(The Girl on the Cover)

neither wanted to take the job nor
to refuse it. It was there, for some-
body to take, and it didn't seem
right to tear Alice away from her
bridegroom and send her touring
around Ohio with a band. Yet we
had to have money, because there
just wasn't any left. If things had
been different I probably would
have been wild with enthusiasm and
excitement. But now it was only a
job.

I found out, before long, that I
wasn't going to have much time to
think about the old days. Jimmy's
was a small outfit that skipped
around Ohio and into neighboring
states like a jumping bean. We'd
stay two nights in Mansfield, one in
Bucyrus, another two in Lima, mak-
ing the hops in between by bus or
train, whichever was handiest. After
a week of it I could hardly remem-
ber any other kind of life.

Before I joined the band, Mother
had taken (Continued on page 50)

Helen O'Connell stars with
Jimmy Dorsey's bond on Your
Happy Birthday, Friday, 9:30 P.M.,
E.D.S.T., over NBC-blue, spon-
sored by Twenty Grand Cigarettes.

MARY NOBLE pulled a sock
over her hand, and looked
critically at the hole in its
heel, rather big, was it worth mend-
ing? She tilted her head on one
side, and her mouth, that beautiful
tender mouth of hers, curved into
a smile. She let the sock and darn-
ing wool drop into her lap, and her
hands lay, relaxed and quiet, upon
them.

She was still smiling as she
glanced around the shabby room,
and through the half open door into
the small kitchen. Strange that this
little apartment, her house dress,
even the dinner she must prepare
soon should give her a sense of
security, of contentment. No, not
strange, not really strange; for the
first time in five years of marriage
she felt like a real wife with her
home duties and a husband who re-
turned at regular hours. And more
than that, she had known long, un-
disturbed hours with Larry, safe in
their own world, unmolested by the
urgent engagements, the stress and
strain of a life which had always
come between them, forcing them
apart until now.

She lifted the sock and began to
mend the tiny hole that had worked
into the heel. Did most women
really find such tasks drab and stu-
pid? But not when every moment
before of your marriage had been
devoted solely to helping your hus-
band fight through his hectic exis-
tence towards the goal of glittering
success. Then the drabness and
stupidness were wiped out by a
complete happiness in this quiet life
so unexpectedly forced upon her.
If only her baby were here to make
her a real mother as well as a real
wife. That would be true happi-
ness— To have Larry, her famous
husband, all her own, and Larry
junior, their son, here to love and
tend and to watch.

Mary looked up, her eyes dark
with her thoughts. No, she could
not ask for this interlude of peace
to be more than just that: an inter-
lude. Larry must begin to make
money soon; the treatments for the
baby were so agonizingly expensive.
They would have to be continued
if he were ever to be well and
strong. Perhaps, she had not taken
proper care of herself before his
birth? The doctors had never said
so, but her anxious heart told her
that might be the reason for his
weakness. She had done her best,
but there had been so much forced
upon her last summer during the
season at Westport; she had had to
handle all the business arrange-
ments; she had had to face and
overcome such strong antagonism
directed against them from some of

Always Mary Noble had shared her famous
husband with other women, but now a new
and passionate love had been offered her
and she must choose, once and for all —

the local people — and the night the
theater had burned had been filled
with terror and effort. Mary sighed.
If only that had been all! The dis-
astrous summer had been followed
by Larry's mistaken venture into
the motion picture field. Would he
ever learn to judge people? She
had felt from the first that the
scheme was false, the promoters
dishonest, but Larry had laughed
aside her warnings. He had been too
anxious, too eager to get back on his
feet; there had been too many fail-
ures. He had grasped at straws
and they had broken. At least they
had paid their debts, they owed no
one money, and the future was still
theirs — Mary glanced at the clock
and laid aside her sewing.

"Time to get dinner." She felt
unreasonably gay and Larry would
be so mystified by her happiness.
No man, perhaps, could understand
that the sweet intimacy of their life
more than compensated for their
poverty. The stake was Larry's ex-
istence and at present he felt de-
feated, a failure. Despondency was
creeping over him. a heavy cloud of

The romance that has thrilled
a million listeners told al a

despair. She knew it must be part
of her task to help him regain his
place in that life which, in a way,
she longed to leave forever.

Had it really been five years since
the hot September day they'd mar-
ried? Five years of pain, of hap-
piness, and the almost unbearable
joy when their baby — their son —
was born to them. Five years when
Larry Noble was a star — a star
whose name gave secret dreams to
women he had never met, a star
who filled theaters whenever he
opened in a new play. Five years
that had ended, as it seemed
strangely to happen to so many
idols, in this insecurity — this unno-
ticed corner — and yet in happiness
too.

Her thoughts ran on, her hands
now busy with the vegetables as
she put them into the water that was
beginning to boil ... as she placed
the silverware on the kitchen table.
Then she glanced up quickly. The
door had opened and Larry was
standing across the room from her.
Always, when she looked up and
saw Larry coming towards her, a
quick deep sense of exaltation swept
through her until she was forced to
hold her breath. So handsome, with
a quality of sensitiveness that took
away any harshness from his firm
mouth, that lent his dark eyes a
brilliance and warmth. But tonight
he flung his hat on a chair with a
weary gesture and it was Mary who
came to his side, holding his hands,
looking into his eyes. She had
learned, long ago, not to ask ques-
tions, but rather to read from his
face and manner his mood.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Read in thrilling fiction form the modern
marriage story of Backstage Wife, heard
Monday to Friday at 4:00 P.M., E.D.S.T.,
on NBC-Red, sponsored by Dr. Lyons Tooth-
powder. Illustrations posed by Vivian Fri-
dell os Mary and Ken Griffin as Larry.

"Dinner's all ready, darling," was
all she said. "A very nice dinner,
too. All the things you like best."

He smiled at her with his lips, but
his eyes were preoccupied and
moody. He mustn't look like that,
Mary thought with a pang. He's
too young to have that taut, strained
expression. Oh Larry, Larry dear,
why must you take things so in-
tensely? But she knew, even as
she rebelled, that it was this very
faculty of emotional absorption
which helped to make him the fine
actor he was. Finer, really, than
the mere fame he had acquired as a
popular stage idol. . . .

YOU'RE wonderful, Mary," he
said, but his voice had no lift,
no life in it. "Most women would
tell me what a flop I am, what a
mess I've made of everything."

Mary brushed his cheek with her
slender fingers.

"Why should they when it would
be a lie?"

"No." He shook his head. "I'm
not the first one it's happened to.
I've seen it with others. Sitting,
waiting to be called for a part, los-
ing their hope. Why haven't I had
an offer if anyone had any faith in
me? Mary, I can't even make
enough money to help our son — "

Her fingers slipped to his mouth,
stopping the words she didn't want
him to say.

"What you need is dinner," she
exclaimed. "Did you eat any lunch?
You forgot to, didn't you?"

At the table Mary urged him to
talk while she quietly saw that he
ate everything she put on his plate.
But he had nothing to tell her except
another day of futile searching.

-m)

There was no play ready for him,
no producer willing to back him.
But tonight Mary refused to be dis-
couraged. She had learned to fight
and wait, and the problem they now
faced did not seem to her of as
tragic proportions as had many of
the difficulties she had had to over-
come during Larry's successful
years. Larry, she knew, would suc-
ceed. Her inner certainty was not
to be shaken.

Not even the thought of their son,
alone tonight, as he was every night,
in a hospital crib which he had
never left since he was born, silent-
ly struggling — though he could not
be aware of it — -struggling to keep
alive, to find strength and the health
that was rightfully his. Only a
nurse's arms ever held him now.
But that too must change. Soon it
would be his mother's arms that
would hold him. And when, later,
Larry turned and took her in his
arms, as they lay side by side, and
buried his face in her shoulder,
Mary felt for an instant, a twinge
of shame that she could be so happy.

She pressed her lips to his hair,
stirred by his closeness. And with
sudden clarity she understood her
husband as never before; warm
hearted, generous, impulsive as a
boy, because he had never grown
up emotionally. His success had
been too easy, his popularity too
much a matter of course. He had
never had to fight to wring victory
from defeat, or to turn disaster into
triumph. But strength was there,
waiting to be brought out by the
need for it and these hard days were
creating a bond between them
which happier hours had failed to
bring. The joy she felt as Larry
held her closer was a symbol of a
union between them which she felt
nothing would disrupt — ever.

Larry looked into her radiant face
when the next afternoon he had re-
turned early from another unsuc-
cessful round of the agencies.

"Mary, you're beyond me. Here
you're singing like a bird, and
there's nothing to sing about that
I know of."

Mary smiled. She knew she could
never explain her feelings to him.

"Maybe I've a hunch," was all
she said. "Maybe I've a hunch that
something wonderful's just about to
happen."

"It had better happen soon, be-
cause . . ."

"There!" Mary exclaimed as the
doorbell shrilled, "that may be it
now."

She ran across the room, and
flung open the door.

"Oh, it's Dennis," she called, "and
from the look on his face I guess I
was right."

Dennis Conroy came hurrying
into the room.

"What's all this — what do you
mean?" he asked, looking from
Mary to Larry.

"Mary had a hunch that some-
thing good was on its way."

"You ought to be a fortune teller,
Mary — "

"What?" Larry took a step for-
ward. "What's up, Dennis?"

Conroy shook himself out of his
coat, and Mary reached for his hat.
Her eyes were bright; she might
have known that the break would
come through Dennis Conroy. their
very good friend as well as a suc-
cessful theatrical producer. How
often in the past had he helped
them over rough spots. He had
never lost faith in Larry, and he
was a good business man who knew
what he was doing. She listened
to Dennis as he walked excitedly
around the room.

"He's a find. I tell you Peter
Darnell will be famous. A friend
brought him in to see me, and when
I read his play — well, it's the perfect
vehicle for you. And I'm ready to
back you."

Larry straightened, and a long
sigh, as of tension relaxed, escaped
from his lips.

"You're sure, Dennis? Oh, you
know what you're doing, but it hit
me — it seems almost too good —
Lord, I'd almost given up hope."

"Don't insult my intelligence,
Larry. When I say a play's good,
it's good. Here it is," he was snap-
ping open his brief case, and fling-

ing a manuscript on the table. "See
for yourself. It isn't quite finished,
but that doesn't matter. The boy's
a genius. When can I bring him
around to see you?"

Larry had seized the manuscript,
and was turning its pages. He did
not hear the question. Mary sat
down, quietly, her eyes on his face.
He had gone far, far away from her
once more. If she spoke, he would
not answer. And in the midst of
her excitement at this sudden turn
of events, a sharp, little pain
stabbed at her. It was over, this
interlude of peace, during which
she and Larry had been just a man
and wife. It had been so rare, so
precious. Now the world was break-
ing in again on the sweet intimacy
of these past weeks. Mary fought
away regret. Dennis was talking
to her, and she forced herself to
listen.

"It's the sort of thing that hap-
pens once in a lifetime, Mary.
Made for Larry — might have been
written for him. Darnell's worth
watching, he's going places. Al-
though he's young 'Twilight Sym-
phony' shows a mature mind. Could
I bring him over this evening?"

"Do. We'll want to meet him.
Oh, wait a minute, there's the tele-
phone. I'll be back."

She turned into the bedroom,
with a backward glance at Larry,
conscious of his hands turning the
page, his eyes racing along the
lines. Yes, the play must be un-
usual to absorb him so completely.
Then she lifted the receiver.

"Yes, Mrs. Noble speaking. What?
Oh. no, — I'll — we'll come at once.
How serious? A chance — I — yes, at
once.-'

Mary placed the receiver care-
fully on the hook and rose to her
feet. She found she was trembling.
The baby — a turn for the worse —
Her first, instinctive thought was of
Larry. Why, why had it to be
now? She shut her eyes for a min-
ute. Should she go alone? Not tell
him? Then with a sudden certainty,
she knew that, at last, she could
turn to her husband for help, she
did not have to face this by herself.
She ran quickly into the other room,
and placed a hand on his arm.

"Larry, dear — I'm sorry — " Her
voice broke. "Oh, Larry, it's the
baby — he's worse. The hospital just
called. I'm going there."

Larry stared at her, forcing him-
self away from the world of imagi-

She opened the door and met
Pe+er's gaze. "Mrs. Noble-
Mary Noble — I've waited a
long time for this," he said.

nation in which he had been lost. He
saw the panic on her face, and flung
the manuscript down.

"Get your coat and hat. I'll be
ready." He turned to Dennis Con-
roy. "Let yourself out, will you?
I'll telephone when I can."

"Sure, sure," Conroy exclaimed.
"If there's anything—"

BUT Mary and Larry were already
out the door, and running down
the hall.

In the taxi Mary straightened her
shoulders as she tried to fight
against the fear which threatened
to overwhelm her.

"They didn't say just what it was
— it's a question whether he'll have
the strength to pull through — oh,
Larry, Larry — if he dies — "

Larry pulled her to him, his arm
was strong about her shoulders, his
hand covered her cold fingers.

"Don't, dear, don't. This isn't like
you. He'll pull through. I know
he'll pull through." .

Mary closed her eyes. She
mustn't break, but her baby
— the baby she had never
really owned, never to put
to bed, to bathe, to dress
— to love and hold in
her arms — and now she
might lose him. Her
throat was so dry she
could not swallow.
Larry was talking, r% I
giving her what com-
fort he could. She
burrowed against
him; how much it
meant to have him
there beside her, to
feel him close. She
pushed herself erect. g

She must not go to
pieces. Larry was
suffering, too.

"We can't lose him,"
she whispered.

"We shan't lose him,"
Larry said.

And it was from Larry's
certainty, from Larry's un-
wavering assurance that Mary
drew strength during the torturing
forty-eight hours which followed
as they waited to know whether
their baby would be taken from
them. And when, at last, Mary
stood beside her son's crib, and saw
him sleeping quietly, and heard the
doctors say that all danger was past,
and that now he would soon be well
enough to come home, she knew
that something more than her
child's life had been given to her.
Her husband had become a mature
man who had not once failed her
during this crisis. Her eyes were
filled with happy tears as she bent
and kissed her baby. And as she

and Larry went out of the hospital
into the bright, clear cold of the
autumn day, she wondered if she
could ever tell Larry of the new
world which had opened before her
because he had been so tender,
thoughtful and brave. No, such
things could not be put into words.
Her actions would have to show
what the change in him had done
for her.

"Let's call Dennis, now — at
once," she begged, "and see if he
can't bring Peter Darnell to the
apartment this afternoon. I'll have
sandwiches and tea for them
and . . ."

Larry swung her, around on the
sidewalk and looked at her.

"You're going home to rest," he
said. "You haven't slept or eaten — "

"Oh, no, I'm not," Mary laughed.

Mary Noble — black hair waving
softly around her face, dark
eyes under a broad, clear brow.

"I'm celebrating Larry Junior's
recovery and the new play. I'm
much too happy to be tired."

Inside the door of their apart-
ment, Larry took her in his arms,
before he went to the telephone.

"Mary," he said softly, "I've just
realized what a rotten time I've
given you — how fine you are — how
much I love you — "

Her arms went around his neck;
she pulled his face down to hers.
She could not answer. Joy rose in
her and choked her. She could
only press her lips to his, and feel
his arms holding her close.

Mary came out of the kitchen
with a plate of sandwiches in her
hand. She had heard the bell ring.
That must be Peter Darnell, she
thought, and hoped she would like
him. It meant so much just what
sort of a person Darnell proved to
be. Larry during rehearsals, whip-
ping a new play into shape, was
never in a condition to adjust him-
self to others; how much of her
energy had always been spent
in preventing friction,
smoothing over rough situ-
ations. She opened the
door and met Peter's
gaze.

"Mrs. Noble — Mary No-
ble— I've waited a long
time for this."
Mary looked into the
dark gray eyes just a
little above her own,
ready to turn aside his
remarks with a light
answer, only to read
a complete and as-
tounding sincerity in
them.

"Where did you ever
hear of me?" she
asked, a trifle uncer-
tain just what to say.
"My husband's the fa-
mous member of the
family, not I." She
glanced toward Larry, he
was smiling with a whimsical
amusement. "But, I've been
anxious to meet you since I read
'Twilight Symphony.' It's fine, it's
real."

"And true, because you had to
have the truth from me. I wrote it
for you."

Mary picked up the sandwiches
and' walked over to the table, Dar-
nell following. Larry busied himself
with the tea things, and Dennis
talked. He was ready to order re-
hearsals; he turned to Peter.
"How soon can you finish it?"
Darnell lit a cigarette.
"Any time. I'll work day and
night. Now that I know you like
it—"

"Like it!" (Continued on page 57)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Nan Grey, heroine of the CBS
serial, Those We Love, heard
Monday nights, says there are
guide posts that help you to
know from the start if he's
really the man of your heart.

By VIRGINIA LANE

Here's a new game of hearts for romanticists —
fill out this questionnaire and give yourself
the acid test to see if this time it's L-O-V-E

THERE'S a gorgeous goofiness
about love that trips you up
sometimes," said Nan Grey. "You
think it is the Real Thing — and then
it turns out to be nothing but a
heavy crush. Just a romantic spell
all mixed up with moonlight and
roses and music.

"I think the most important thing
in the world for a girl is to be able
to tell actual love from infatuation."
But how? Nan began to learn
the answers on a certain Saturday
afternoon back in her home town of
Houston, Texas. There was a cer-
tain local football star that she
thought she was crazy about. "I
was absolutely sure it was Love,"
Nan admitted. "We'd had a lot of
fun together, dancing and swim-
ming, and I liked the way his hair

curled. You know — it was one of
those sudden things that hit you
and you think, "This surely is it!"

"Then something happened to
show me it wasn't. And I snapped
out of it just in the nick of time."

On this particular Saturday, her
uncle invited Nan and a girl friend
out to the race track. It was the
first time she'd ever been to one.
They bet on a long-shot named
"Meany" — ridden by a jockey listed
as Jack Westrope. The horse
came romping home to the tune* of
$10.10 apiece. Nan was so thrilled
she ran clear out to the paddock to
meet this Westrope and thank him.
That was the beginning.

They didn't see each other again
until she came to Hollywood. But
the football star faded from sight

that same day. It can be a serious
business to mistake a mere girl-
and-boy flutter-ation for the sort of
Heart Case that counts. Sometimes
whole lives are spoiled by it. That's
why you have to be sure.

"Jack and I have been married a
year and a half now," said Nan.
"And when he has to go out of town
for a race, I'm no good for any-
thing. I can't think. I even muff
my lines in radio rehearsals."

For those two it's been the Real
Thing, no doubt about it. There are
certain guide posts that help you
to know from the start, Nan ex-
plained. Here they are in the form
of a test. It's a new game of hearts
to tell if you are really in love!
Twenty-five questions — to see if that
Feeling is fancy or deep-rooted fact.

LOVE QUESTIONNAIRE

(Simply answer yes or no to each question. Be honest. There
are no tricks. Then turn to page 76 to see how you made out.)

1 . Do you feel he's such an exciting person that you have to strain
every minute to keep up with him?

2. Have many people annoyed you lately, especially your
family?

3. Has some person you know only slightly remarked about your
appearance during the last few weeks?

4. If he's late for a date, do you:

(a) worry for fear he's been in an accident?

(b) sizzle. and sputter with righteous indignation?

5. Do you enjoy reading or a game of bridge as much as you
used to?

6. Are you simply cru-azy about him because he. looks a leedle
bit like Gary Cooper, for instance?

(Continued on vage 49)

JTTLY, 1941

(A-

A bitter sweet story of two sisters —
Grace, confident in her beauty and
in love; Jeannie, hiding behind her
barrier of shyness and miserable in
her desire for life, until one day—

IF I close my eyes and go back into my
memory, I can still hear some thoughtless
friend or relative say:

"No one would ever take you and Grace for
sisters. Why you're as different as day and
night."

None of them would ever come right out and
say that Grace was everything I wasn't. That
she was beautiful and charming and clever,
but little sister Jeannie — The first thing I
remember about those years in which I grew
up was the sudden, painful realization that
Grace and I were different. I know now, of
course, that there was nothing unusual about
us. The tragedy of two sisters — one a shadow
in the bright sparkle of the other — is not new.
But to us who have been foolish enough to
suffer because of it, it is always new and
tragic.

I can blame no one but myself for what hap-
pened to me. Not that I became jealous or
envious of Grace. But I did withdraw more
and more into myself. I built a barrier to my
own happiness. I let myself believe that
Grace's popularity and personality had robbed
me of a chance to do anything but wait until
she had married and left home. The result
was inevitable. Naturally shy and reserved, I
now became dull and uninteresting.

When I graduated from school, I found a
job. I bought pretty clothes, but hardly ever
wore them. I was convinced that I couldn't
attract boys. I reasoned that once I asked them
to my home and they saw Grace, they'd lose
all interest in me. So my new dresses hung
unused in my closet until Grace would come
into my room and ask me if she could wear
my prettiest one to the party or dance she was
going to that night. I'd watch her from the
top of the stairs as she and her latest boy-
friend would leave. And then, long hours later,
I'd hear their muffled voices as he placed her
key in the lock. I'd wait for the minute of
silence that meant she had given him her
good-night kiss. I'd try to picture myself in

her place, a gay and happy and popular
Jeannie. But then I'd laugh pityingly to myself
and attempt to sleep.

My self-torture was so unnecessary. But
I was too young and blind to know it. My
mirror could have told me that I was attrac-
tive and that if I spent as much time with my
make-up and appearance as Grace did, I might
have had the same glamorous appeal. Yet I
ignored the gentle hints of my family and let
a feeling of bitter frustration take hold of me.

I don't know what would have happened if
Grace hadn't met Jerry Taylor. I heard her
come in that night, too. I pretended to be asleep
but she switched on the light and ran up to
my bed. There was a brilliance in her eyes,
a glow in her face I had never seen before. She
was in love! I knew it before she said a word.
And then I felt my own heart pound with a
desperate longing and desire as she told me
about Jerry and how sure she was at last that
he was the man she'd always wanted to know.

As the weeks passed, my pleasure in Grace's
happiness was clouded by my own feelings.
Each evening I'd watch her dress for her date
with Jerry and always I'd think "why can't
this be me? Why must Grace have every-
thing?" I spent tortuous hours trying to find
the answer, and then I woke up for the first
time. I realized, finally, that I had been an
unseeing, unthinking little fool. I had blamed
everyone but myself. I was lonely, I was
miserable, but what had I done about it?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But how could
I start? What could I do to find a Jerry for
myself?

I did the most obvious, most natural thing.
I spent my lunch hour in a beauty shop. In
that brief time, the quick skillful fingers of the
operator accomplished what seemed miracles
to me. She simply smiled when I told her that
and explained that all she'd done was set my
hair in the most becoming style and, after the
facial, made up my face the way I should al-
ways have done it. (Turn to next page)

This true story was first broadcast en the "Hew Did You Meet" program, heard
Wednesdays over NBC. at 8.J5 P.M., E.D.S.T.. sponsored by Woodbury Soap and Cosmetics.

RADIO AMD TELEVISION IHEBBOR

A BROADCAST DRAMA
FROM REAL LIFE

fr •»

I was eager to get home, anxious to see if anyone
noticed the change in me, but I stopped first to buy
the new frock I'd been admiring in the window of the
Exclusive Shop for days.

Like a little girl bewitched by the magic of her first
long dress, I waited while the seamstress fitted it. I,
acting on a crazy sort of impulse, decided immediately
to wear it home.

Grace and Mother and Dad were already at dinner
when I came into the dining room. They all looked
at me, unbelieving, almost, but it was Grace who said
the words I had waited too long to hear:

"Why, Jeannie, you're pretty — really pretty!"

I tried to hide the blush I felt burn my cheeks. And
finally the spotlight of family curiosity left me when
Grace began to talk about Jerry and the fun they'd
had together the night before. I followed her upstairs
after supper to help her dress. She begged me to tell
her about the man who had made me turn into a
glamour girl overnight. She wouldn't believe me when
I tried to explain. Then I met each of her questions
with a knowing smile and, at last, she gave up.

As I watched her deftly apply her lip-stick, I asked
her where she and Jerry were going. I Was a little
surprised by her answer:

"I'm Hal Worley."

I only nodded and said, "I know." His face, snub-
nose, freckles and all, fell a little:

"Oh — and I thought it would be a surprise. You're
not at all as Jerry described you."

"Well, it's little wonder—"

"No, ma'am . . . Not a bit. Jerry ought to get himself
a pair of glasses."

"I don't think he really needs them. You see . . ."

But he wouldn't let me finish. "I see — but he doesn't.
Why he didn't come anywhere near doing justice to
you."

"But Jerry didn't . . ."

"Jerry didn't do a lot of things. But we're going to
make up for that tonight, aren't we, Grace?"

So Hal thought I was Grace, yet his compliments
were meant for me! But I shook my head:

"I don't think so."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "I shouldn't wonder."

"As a matter of fact, when I rang your bell tonight,
I had my doubts."

The experience of talking and laughing with a man
who seemed to like me immediately was so new and
thrilling that I determined to let the deception continue
for a few more minutes. After all, I was harming no
one with my trifling masquerade — and this flattering
small-talk meant so much to me. More than I had ever
realized.

"And now?"

"Well, now I'm looking forward to a wonderful
evening."

Hal's tone was so sincere, so completely honest that
20

I tried again:

"You're making a mistake. I'm . .

Again he interrupted.

"No I'm not."

"Are you sure you want to take me out?"

"Can there be any doubt about it? Now, not another
word out of you, Grace. Just hurry and get your things
because I'll be holding my breath until you get back."

I ran up the steps and breathlessly burst in on Grace.
All ready to go, she had her hat in her hand. She
smiled when she noticed my excitement.

"Looks like he made quite an impression on you,
Jean. What's he like?"

"Grace, I've never asked you for anything before —
but just this once, let me pretend I'm you! The moment
Hal walked into the house, something happened to me.
For the first time in my life, I didn't envy you all the
boys you know — all the dates you've had. Grace —

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

The words tumbled over each other as I pleaded —
"Grace, please — let me take your place — tonight."

please — let me take your place. Please — just for
tonight!"

Grace looked searchingly at me. She could see what
had happened. Without a word, she placed her bag
back on the dresser and put down her hat.

JULY, 1941

"Jeannie — he's all yours. But let me give you a little
advice — don't carry this masquerade too far. You might
find yourself involved in something that's way over
your head."

I was already at the door. But I turned for a second:

"Oh, Grace — don't worry. I'll unmask the first chance
I get."

Her words followed me down the steps.

"Don't forget. Remember what happened to Cinder-
ella when she waited too long!"

But sitting beside Hal in his car I forgot everything.
Everything except the thought that I was where I
wanted to be. None of the parties and fun and men
I had missed meant anything to me now. I was glad —
so gloriously glad — that I had never kissed a man
before. Happy that the man's arms to guide me in the
dance steps I had so laboriously learned alone should
be Hal's. I couldn't tell him now that I wasn't Grace.
Perhaps he would feel that I had tricked him. Perhaps
he wouldn't understand. That was a mistake. A bad
mistake. But I was too young and inexperienced to
know that then.

"To you and Jerry, Grace."

With a recklessness I didn't know I possessed, I
smiled and whispered:

"No, to you and me, Hal. Just for tonight."

The hours went by too quickly. I looked at my
watch. It was almost midnight. And then I remembered
Grace's last warning sentence — "remember what hap-
pened to Cinderella when she waited too long!" Had I
waited too long? I was suddenly afraid. I had gambled
with love and love was not meant for those who played
with it. I was silent and quiet and Hal, so kind and
considerate, was quick to notice it:

"What's the matter, Grace? Aren't you having fun?"

"Oh, Hal, I'm having so much fun. Are you?"

His smile was lopsided and it seemed to go with his
burnished hair and the (Continued on page 76)

MMH

I was eager to get home, anxious to see if anyone
noticed the change in me, but * . stof ed. fi,rf *f ^
the new frock I'd been admiring in the window of the
Exclusive Shop for days. . ,

Like a little girl bewitched by the magic o her first
long dress, I waited while the seamstress fitted it 1,
acting on a crazy sort of impulse, decided immediately

to wear it home. J4-„«r

Grace and Mother and Dad were already at dinner
when I came into the dining room. They all looked
at me, unbelieving, almost, but it was Grace who said
the words I had waited too long to hear:

"Why, Jeannie, you're pretty— really pretty!'

I tried to hide the blush I felt burn my cheeks. And
finally the spotlight of family curiosity left me when
Grace began to talk about Jerry and the fun they d
had together the night before. I followed her upstairs
after supper to help her dress. She begged me to tell
her about the man who had made me turn into a
glamour girl overnight. She wouldn't believe me when
I tried to explain. Then I met each of her questions
with a knowing smile and, at last, she gave up.

As I watched her deftly apply her lip-stick, I asked
her where she and Jerry were going. I was a little
surprised by her answer:

"Oh, I'm not seeing Jerry tonight. He had to leave
town for a few days so he's sending around an old
friend, Hal Worley, to keep an eye on me. I've never
met him, but from the way Jerry talked, he must be
terrific."

"I'm Hal Worley."

I only nodded and said, "I know." His face, snub-
nose, freckles and all, fell a little:

"Oh — and I thought it would be a surprise. You're
not at all as Jerry described you."

"Well, it's little wonder — "

"No, ma'am . . . Not a bit. Jerry ought to get himself
a pair of glasses."

"I don't think he really needs them. You see . . ."

But he wouldn't let me finish. "I see — but he doesn't.
Why he didn't come anywhere near doing justice to
you."

"But Jerry didn't . . ."

"Jerry didn't do a lot of things. But we're going to
make up for that tonight, aren't we, Grace?"

So Hal thought I was Grace, yet his compliments
were meant for me! But I shook my head:

"I don't think so."

"You're not angry at me for calling you Grace are
you? After all, I feel as though I've known you for
years. Do you realize that ever since I've known Jerry
he's done nothing but talk about you. It was Grace
this and Grace that. I'm afraid I got a little tired of it
after a while."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "I shouldn't wonder "

T u^f 3 m^tte! °f fact' when 1 ranfi vour bell tonight
I had my doubts." '

The experience of talking and laughing with a man
who seemed to like me immediately was so new and
thnlhng that I determined to let the deception continue
for a few more minutes. After all, I was harming no
Zlu\ ^ trf ng mas<^rade-and this flattering
Sized ^ S° mUCh t0 me- More than l had ever

"And now?"

evening.'"11™ ^ l0°king f°rward to a wonderful
Hal's tone was so sincere, so completely honest that

The words tumbled over each other as I pleaded—
Grace, please— let me take your place— tonight."

I tried again:

"You're making a mistake. I'm . . ."

Again he interrupted.

"No I'm not."

"Are you sure you want to take me out?"

"Can there be any doubt about it? Now, not another
word out of you, Grace. Just hurry and get your things
because I'll be holding my breath until you get back."

I ran up the steps and breathlessly burst in on Grace.
All ready to go, she had her hat in her hand. She
smiled when she noticed my excitement.

"Looks like he made quite an impression on you,
Jean. What's he like?"

I tried to tell her what had happened. She instantly
assumed, of course, that I had told Hal the truth before
I had come upstairs. But when I confessed that I had
never quite succeeded in doing that, she good-na-
turedly shrugged her shoulders and started down. I
stopped her before she could leave the room. The
impulse that had made me continue the masquerade
gripped me tightly. My words tumbled over each other
as 1 begged Grace to grant me the most important favor
i had ever asked.

"Grace I've never asked you for anything bef ore-
out just this once, let me pretend I'm you! The moment
wal walked into the house, something happened to me-
*or the first time in my life, I didn't envy you all the
ooys you know— all the dates you've had. Grace—

RADIO AND TELEVISION MW011

please — let me take your place. Please — just for
tonight!"

Grace looked searchingly at me. She could see what
had happened. Without a word, she placed her bag
back on the dresser and put down her hat.

TOlY, 1941

.* 'Jeann!^7he's all yours. But let me give you a little
advice-don t carry this masquerade too far. You „ fght

yourEf mV°1Ved ln SOmethinS that's -y otr

-oh "<£SS,at ?e door- But l turned f0r a second:

I get." GraCe~d0n * worrv- ™ ""mask the first chance
Her words followed me down the steps.

ella when <fhget' Re"!fnlDer what haPPened to Cinder-
ella when she waited too long1"

But sitting beside Hal in his car I forgot everything
Everything except the thought that I was Xre I
wanted to be. None of the parties and fun and men
I had missed meant anything to me now. I was glad-
so gloriously glad-that I had never kissed a man

H±T tHaPPTy,thf * thC man'S arms to *uide ™ 1" the
dance steps I had so laboriously learned alone should
be Hal si couldn't tell him now that I wasn't Grace
Perhaps he would feel that I had tricked him. Perhaps
he wouldn't understand. That was a mistake. A bad
mistake But I was too young and inexperienced to
know that then.

Hal had tickets for the dance at the Country Club
It was only a short drive from our house. Yet each
minute seemed to stretch out into a delicious eternity
Outwardly, there was nothing unusual about the ride
Hal talked a lot about Jerry. How they'd met in college
and roomed together and what a swell fellow my
"fiance" was. Bundled up in my own thoughts, I didn't
answer. They spun in rhythm with the whir of the tires
on the road. Intuitively I knew— just as something had
driven me to the beauty shop and the new dress— that
Hal must have known what I felt and felt it, too. There
was a magnetic pull of two personalities to each other.
It was as if the same electric current had passed
through us both at exactly the same time. I felt it when
I accidentally brushed Hal's hand and when he held
my arm to help me from the car.

With a recklessness I didn't know I possessed, I
smiled and whispered:

"No, to you and me, Hal. Just for tonight."
We sipped our wine and danced and talked. I had
never thought that happiness could come close enough
for me to reach out and touch it. It was a writer's love
story come to life — a dream that was as real and solid
as the white napery and the gleaming silverware. What
did we talk about? Why did we laugh so much? Why
did contentment fill our eyes like tears and like tears
seem to well up and spill over? I don't know. A man
and a girl in love should never know. I remember only
the beautiful magic of the moments. That thrill which
comes only once, the thrill of slipping into Hal's arms
for the first time when we danced.

The hours went by too quickly. I looked at my
watch. It was almost midnight. And then I remembered
Grace's last warning sentence — "remember what hap-
pened to Cinderella when she waited too long!" Had I
waited too long? I was suddenly afraid. I had gambled
with love and love was not meant for those who played
with it. I was silent and quiet and Hal, so kind and
considerate, was quick to notice it:

"What's the matter, Grace? Aren't you having fun?"
"Oh, Hal, I'm having so much fun. Are you?"
His smile was lopsided and it seemed to go with his
burnished hair and the (Continued on page 76)

He brings romance into your homes three mornings a week on his Treat Time program over CBS.
Although Buddy didn't write our song of the month, "Darling, How You Lied," he features it on
his program. He loves to play baseball with the neighborhood kids and flying is his new hobby.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

^n^UM

LIVING PORTRAITS

For your enjoyment— another exclusive album of special photographs. Meet
Myrt and Marge, Clarence, Bill Boyle, Don MacLaughlin, real people you hear
every day when you tune in the favorite drama sponsored by Super Suds on CBS

MYRTLE HAYFIELD is all "trouper." For ten years
now, this warmhearted, sincere, courageous woman
of show business has lived a breathlessly exciting and
colorful life. When you first met Myrt, she was in
the chorus of "Hayfield's Pleasures." A veteran of
ten seasons, Myrt met Marge, a shy, sixteen-year-old
youngster, just starting in show business. Between
them there developed a lasting and beautiful friend-
ship. Myrt later discovered that Marge was her own
daughter. Then, Myrt fell in love with Hayfield and
married him. When he died, she inherited the
theater and she and Marge became full fledged
actresses. Since then, they have been adventuring
together all over the world. Recently, in Hollywood,
the murder of Clinton Merrill once more thwarted
the success they've long deserved. Now Myrt is
once again back to her old stamping grounds, New
York, getting ready to open her own musical show
at the Hayfield Theater. With years of experience
behind her, with all the insight and ability she truly
has, Myrt's efforts should make the show a smash hit.

MARGE ARNOLD is an exciting, beautiful young
woman. Her dark, soft-flowing hair, her lovely, light
brown eyes and sensitive face have attracted many
men. She is no longer the shy, helpless girl Myrt
met ten years ago. Show business has given her poise
and sophistication. Life really began for Marge
when she met and married Jack Arnold, a handsome
young District Attorney. They had one child, Midge.
Jack later met his death at the hands of gangsters,
but Marge took it bravely. She is a trouper, fully
as much as Myrt is, but very often lets her trusting,
lovable, impetuous nature mislead her. She was
hoodwinked into her marriage with Clinton Merrill,
in spite of Myrt's advice. When Merrill was mur-
dered, suspicion fell on .Marge. Only through the
loyal efforts of Myrt, Clarence and Bill Boyle was
Marge saved. She will probably not fall in love
again soon, but even after all these years, Myrt can
never tell what Marge will do next because Marge
is filled with that deep and sometimes terrifying
love of life that is in all who are young and vital.

9 k -v

l\VV\\VllV^lll^^VVlVVVllil^lVVV^^I.V*.W\VVV^lVi^^'lVViVVVll.lLWVVl.l.^tVlL^«JLVVllVVil

imn\m\\\\\\m\m\\mTO^

Played by Myrtle Vail

HUH

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im\\\\mm\\m\\\\\Tm\\\m^

Played by Helen Mack (formerly played by the late Donna Damerel)

um\\iivu\\m\vi^^^

Myrt and Marge Photos Especially Taken for Radio Mirror by CBS — Seigal

CLARENCE TIFFINGTUFFER is Myrt and Marge's oldest friend. When Marge came to get a chorus job
with "Hayfield's Pleasures," she was ill from hunger, and kindly, jittery, boyish Clarence came to her
aid. He was a costume designer for the show and has been a costume designer ever since, plying
his trade sometimes wickedly against the enemies of Myrt and Marge. Many a catty show girl has
felt Clarence's pins. Clarence loves Myrt and Marge very much, but every time the poor boy tries
to get them out of trouble he only gets them in deeper. He is not immune from trouble himself.
When Ray Hunt was murdered, the gun was found in Clarence's pocket. Myrt and Marge cleared him.
Clarence has never been more than a hop, skip and jump away from the gals. In Rio De Janeiro,
when they were broke and stranded, Clarence, the fool for luck, won a lottery and saved the day.
Clarence continually borrows money from Marge, is a terrific eater and secretly wants to be an actor.

Played by Ray Hedge

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

■H

DON MACLAUGHLIN (right) owns that
mellow voice that tells you all about the
sponsor's product. He's a big, blond, hand-
some, 185-pounder who has been every-
where and done everything. Born in Web-
ster, Iowa, Don attended Iowa Wesleyan,
Northwestern, the University of Arizona
and the University of Iowa before he was
finally granted his degree in speech. Wan-
derlust kept getting in the way of educa-
tion. At the University of Arizona he
worked as an announcer on a local station.
At the University of Iowa he was president
of the "Purple Masque," a dramatic so-
ciety. After graduation, Don taught school
in a small Iowa town. He was not only an
English teacher, but taught music, dra-
matics and was athletic coach. New York
is the mecca for all young men with am-
bition, and Don landed a job in New York
with the Columbia Artists Bureau and went
on the road with Little Jack Little's band,
as manager. Then the wanderlust took him
again and the next thing he did was hop
a freighter for the Orient. Eventually, he
wound up back in New York again and found
himself a job in radio and a lovely wife.

ymmmmmwummmmv

\m\m\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\m\\\\\w

BILL BOYLE (left) is a talkative newspaper
columnist, strictly from Broadway, a
dynamo in a gray, slouch hat. Several
years ago, in Hollywood, Bill stumbled
into Myrt and Marge, who were involved
in a murder case. Bill came to their rescue
and helped the F.B.I, solve the crime. Bill
has a little bloodhound in him and likes
nothing better than a good murder to work
on. He is also extremely fond of Marge
and has a sort of platonic "crush" on her.
Last year, Myrt and Marge got into an-
other scrape with Chinese smugglers. Out
of nowhere, Bill appeared and cleared up
the trouble. Both Myrt and Marge have
a deep affection for him and are fascinated
by his picturesque speech. When Clinton
Merrill was murdered recently, Bill, think-
ing Marge was guilty, offered to help her
escape. Eventually, the real murderer
was caught, but Myrt and Marge were
stymied in Hollywood with no way to make
a living. It was Bill Boyle's suggestion
that they go back to New York and re-open
the Hayfield Theater. Since then, he has
been giving them help through his column.

Played by Arthur Elmer

T wasn't happening, it couldn't be

happening, Ellen felt, standing

there in that gloomy room with
its windows shrouded in heavy cur-
tains, almost as if it were trying to
hide from the world. Incredible that
it was early afternoon on a bright
midsummer day, here in this heavy
dusk, in this room made even more
somber by its overpoweringly mas-
sive furniture. And the woman star-
ing at her, the hatred in her eyes
seeming the only living thing in the
room accentuated the nightmarish
unreality of her quick terror.

Ellen didn't know anything about
this house or the people who lived
in it. Maybe it had been foolhardy,
even worse, to go so quickly from
Simpsonville in answer to that ad
she had seen in a paper. And she
was glad now that she hadn't
yielded to that impulse to take the
children. They were safe in Simp-
sonville with Hilda and Uncle Josh
looking after them.

"You . . . you're Mrs. Gaines?"
Ellen asked then, trying to fight
down her fear, to keep her voice
casual and as if this were any ordi-
nary meeting in any ordinary room.
For when she had announced her-
self at the door this strange woman
had only nodded and led the way
into this room, closing the heavy oak
door after them.

"No." The woman's lips hardly
opened as she spoke. "I'm Miss
Hethers, the housekeeper. Will you
give me your references? I'm sup-
posed to bring them to Mr. Gaines
before the interview."

"I'm sorry," Ellen felt as if she
were pinning her smile to the cor-
ners of her mouth. "I have none.
But I'd like to speak to Mr. Gaines.
I think I can explain my lack of
credentials."

"Well," the woman gave her a
long, measuring glance. "It won't
do you no good, Mrs. Brown. He
don't employ nurses without refer-

Fief ionized from the dramatic radio serial, Young Widder Brown,
heard every Monday through Friday, at 4:45 P.M., E.D.S.T., on
the NBC-Red network. Illustration specially posed by Florence
Freeman as Ellen Brown and Ned Wever as Dr. Anthony Lorlng.

ences. But I'll tell him you're here
anyway."

"Please," Ellen said. She felt the
need of something to do, some ordi-
nary everyday sort of thing, which
by its very custom would be re-
assuring and almost involuntarily
opened her bag and took out her
powder puff. But in her hurry she
had gone off without her mirror.

"I wonder if there's a mirror
around that I could use for a mo-
ment," she laughed. "I'd . . ."

"There aren't any mirrors here,
Mrs. Brown," the housekeeper
looked at her sharply.

"No mirrors?" Ellen couldn't help
showing her amazement. "But . . .
but why?"

"I suggest you don't ask too
many questions," Miss Hethers said
grimly. "I'll let Mr. Gaines know
you're waiting. And please try to
be quiet. The madam is asleep up-
stairs. And we mustn't disturb her
under any circumstances."

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

■ I

She looked erf him — and suddenly she was seeing a
stranger who threatened her children's happiness.

The door closed heavily behind
her rigid, uncompromising back and
Ellen sat down stiffly on the edge of
one of the chairs. It was unbearable
waiting, with the heavy silence clos-
ing around her. Something was
wrong in this room and this house,
terribly wrong. Ellen couldn't relax
or make herself comfortable and her
thoughts raced in rhythm to her
heart beating so rapidly in that new
frightened way.

She couldn't stay here, she felt

JOT.Y, 1941

desperately as she fought her grow-
ing uneasiness. Yet she couldn't
give in so easily. Where could she
go, what could she do, if she didn't
get this position? There were only
those few crumpled bills in her bag,
barely enough to pay her railroad
fare to another town.

But even if there had been more
than enough, she couldn't go back to
Simpsonville. Loneliness swept over
her at the thought of it. Janey and
Mark would be coming home from

She could turn her back on

love, flee from it to new

and strange surroundings —
and yet, Ellen learned, it
would seek her out, bring
problems she could not solve

school now. And Anthony — her
heart skipped a beat remembering —
Anthony would be finishing his
office hours at the clinic too. Maybe
he would be stopping by now, right
this minute and hearing that she
had gone. He would be hurt, she
knew that, at her leaving like this,
without even a message or a
goodbye.

It was hard thinking of the chil-
dren and Anthony, the three she
loved best in the world. But it was
because of those loves, those con-
flicting loyalties she had come here.
Why couldn't life be simpler, why
couldn't each love take its own place
in her heart without one encroach-
ing on the other?

It was Janey who had made her
see how impossible it was to keep
on the way she had been going. That
day Anthony had suddenly taken
Ellen in his arms and kissed her she
had felt that her whole life had been
destined for this moment. She had
never known happiness like this,
exciting and yet calm too, with her
pulses racing and her heart stand-
ing on tiptoe as he held her.

Then suddenly it had been over,
the ecstasy and the peace alike, for
she had heard Janey's startled cry
and turned to see the child standing
there, her eyes wide with sudden
fear.

"Oh, Mummy, I don't want to lose
you. You're ours, mine and Mark's!"
And her voice had sounded fright-
ened and bewildered and heartsick.

At first Ellen had tried to talk to
the child. It hadn't seemed so im-
possible then, feeling as she did it
was the first shock of seeing her
mother in a man's arms that had
made the child react so violently.
But as the days went by the tension
had only increased. Ellen felt the
child's eyes fixed on her constantly
as if she were afraid to stop watch-
ing her for a moment. And once at
night (Continued on page 67)

She looked of htm— and suddenly she was seeing a
stranger who threatened her children's happiness.

IT wasn't happening, it couldn t be
happening, Ellen felt, standing
there in that gloomy room with
its windows shrouded in heavy cur-
tains, almost as if it were trying to
hide from the world. Incredible that
it was early afternoon on a bright
midsummer day, here in this heavy
dusk, in this room made even more
somber by its overpoweringly mas-
sive furniture. And the woman star-
ing at her, the hatred in her eyes
seeming the only living thing in the
room accentuated the nightmarish
unreality of her quick terror.

"No." The woman's lips hardly
opened as she spoke. "I'm Miss
Hethers, the housekeeper. Will you
give me your references? I'm sup-
posed to bring them to Mr. Gaines
before the interview."

"I'm sorry," Ellen felt as if she
were pinning her smile to the cor-
ners of her mouth. "I have none.
But I'd like to speak to Mr. Gaines.
I think I can explain my lack of
credentials."

"Well," the woman gave her a

long, measuring glance. "It won't

do you no good, Mrs. Brown. He

don't employ nurses without refer-

Fief ionized from the dramatic radio serial. Young Widder Brown,
heard every Monday through Friday, at 4:45 P.M., E.D.S.T., on
the NBC-Red network. Illustration specially posed by Florence
Freeman as Ellen Brown and Ned Wever as Dr. Anthony Loring.

ences. But I'll tell him you're here
anyway."

"I wonder if there's a mirror
around that I could use for a mo-
ment," she laughed. "I'd . . ."

"There aren't any mirrors her ,
Mrs. Brown," the housekeep
looked at her sharply. . i«

"No mirrors?" Ellen couldn't ne v
showing her amazement. "But •
but why?" to0

"I suggest you don't ass
many questions," Miss Heth tn0tf
grimly. "I'll let Mr. Gaines *" ^
you're waiting. And please try
be quiet. The madam is asleep ^
stairs. And we mustn't disturb
under any circumstances.

HAMO AND TELEVISION a*0""'

She couldn't stay here, she felt

JVLY, 1941

desperately as she fought her grow-
ing uneasiness. Yet she couldn t
give in so easily. Where could she
go what could she do, if she didn t
ge this position? There were only
those few crumpled bills in her bag
barely enough to pay her railroad
fare to another town.

But even if there had been more
than enough, she couldn't go back to
Simpsonville. Loneliness swept over
L at the thought of it. Janey and

Mark would be coming home from

She could turn her back on
love, flee from it to new
and strange surroundings —
and yet, Ellen learned, it
would seek her out, bring
problems she could not solve

Then suddenly it had been over,
the ecstasy and the peace alike, for
she had heard Janey's startled cry
and turned to see the child standing
there, her eyes wide with sudden

"Oh, Mummy, I don't want to lose
you. You're ours, mine and Mark's!"
And her voice had sounded fright-
ened and bewildered and heartsick.

Darling-, How You Lied

The new sentimental tune that brings a tear to your eyes every time
you hear Buddy Clark sing it on his morning CBS program. Treat Time

Arranged by Frank D, Kettering

Words and Music by
ETHELYN ATHA

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When you lied .

It hadn't been easy for
Portia to go on after her
husband's death — for the
people of Parkerstown did
not trust a woman lawyer.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

If only she could set him free from this mockery of marriage into which
she had driven him! Read this powerful radio drama of a woman's courage

IT was one of those summer
showers, a sudden deluge from
banked-up clouds that only a
moment before had been mere cas-
tles of pearl on the horizon. Portia
Blake, caught halfway between her
office and home, lowered her head
and plunged through it, enjoying
the coolness it brought even though
she was aware that in another five
minutes her dress of soft blue linen
would be soaked.

A car, an expensive roadster,
darkly, glossily green, swerved to
the curb beside her. "Portia!" said
a voice that she knew. "Jump in!
I'll drive you home."

She wanted to refuse. She had not
seen Walter Manning alone since
his marriage. She was desperately
afraid that she did not want to see
him. But under the circumstances,
a meeting could not be postponed
forever. This occasion was very
likely as good as any other. She
stepped through the door he held
open for her, sank back against the
soft leather cushions.

He put the car in gear. "Do you
mind," he said, "if I don't take you
straight home? I'd like to talk to
you.".

Portia glanced at him. She won-
dered if he ever smiled now. This
was the man she had seen in the
courtroom when Bryan Harrison's
will came up for probate — a man
thinned down to bone and nerves,
with a tense, painfully controlled
look about his lips and sombre eyes.
A man so changed from the one she
used to know.

"Of course, Walter," she said.

As they drove through the out-
skirts of town, along the road that
led to the river, the rain abruptly
ceased its pattering on the top of the
car, and the late-afternoon sun
blazed out between the clouds. Wal-
ter said, "Is everything all right at
the office?"

"Yes, wonderful. I'm very busy
with . . . with the estate, of course."

"Yes. It's a big job."

He stopped the car, a moment
later, where a growth of willows

JULY, 1941

framed a view of the smoothly flow-
ing river, its surface flawed here
and there by a few tardy drops of
rain. His hands fell from the wheel.
"I don't know, after all, why I
asked you to come out here, Portia,"
he confessed. "I saw you and — I
wanted to be with you. Just as I've
always wanted to be with you. But
there really isn't anything for us
to say."

What was there to say, Portia
wondered, between a woman and
the man she might have married,
had he not married someone else?
Particularly when —

She turned in the seat to face him.
A shimmering reflection from the
river touched the smooth curves of
her broad forehead, her unrouged
cheeks, her wide, firm mouth.
"There is nothing you have to say,
Walter."

"Except — " His heavy brows
drew down, and he spoke as if the
words were being torn from him.
"Except that I've got to tell you
something I should have told you
before — how much I love you!"

"There's no need to tell me even
that," she said. "I knew — but I
wouldn't let you speak."

It seemed incredible to her now
that this should be true. Yet it was.
She herself was to blame.

So much had happened in the year
since Richard, her husband, was
killed in an automobile wreck,
leaving her with no estate beyond
a barely existent law practice.
There would_have been no way for
her to support herself and Dickie,
their son, if she herself had not
already been a member of the bar,
able to take over the practice and
make of it what she could. Even
so, it hadn't been easy. Parker-
town was anxious to help, but it
didn't wholly trust a woman lawyer.

In those first days, Walter Man-
ning's help had been something to

Token from the radio serial heard every
Monday through Friday at 5:15 E.D.T., on
NBC's Red network, sponsored by Post
Toosfies. Photos posed by Lucille Wall
as Portia and Joan Banks as Arline.

cling to. He had been Richard's
best friend; it was natural that he
should do everything he could for
Richard's widow. But then she had
realized that he loved her, and had
turned her back on the knowledge.
Even the thought of love had
seemed to be a treachery to Richard.
In the ways a woman knows, she
had kept Walter from telling her
what was in his heart.

She could not reproach Walter
for what had happened. But —

"I've got to tell you, Portia,"
Walter was saying. "I've got to tell
you how it happened that Arline

and I were — married. I'm not proud of it, God knows.
I think I must have been insane. But I'd been driving
her car when the wreck happened. I felt responsible.
She was so near to dying — and she said she didn't
want to live if I wouldn't marry her. With some
people, you'd pass that off as hysteria. But not Arline.
All her life she's had what she wanted; I think to be
denied it really would kill her . . ."

Yes, that was true too, Portia realized wearily, and
there again she had made a mistake, because she had
thought it would be good for Walter to go around with
Arline Harrison — good for him to have the admiration
of someone so lovely, so fresh and wayward. Yet how
could she have foreseen the accident, Arline's injuries,
the tragic, mistaken consequence?

"Her father knew well enough that she meant what
she said," Walter went on bitterly. "He begged me to
give in, and it's hard to say no to a man you've looked
up to for years — to your boss, the owner of the news-
paper you work on. And I knew you would never
care for anyone but Richard — "

A COLD, glittering wave broke in Portia's heart. This
was it, this was positive assurance of what she had
guessed and feared — that Walter had married Arline
because she herself had never allowed him to believe
his love for her might be returned.

"I was fond of Arline — I thought I could make her
happy. I deluded myself into believing I could bury
my love for you. But somehow Arline guessed how
I feel. And now — since her father died — her jealousy
makes life a hell for both of us."

"She hates me," Portia said. "I knew that a week
ago, when I saw her in the court room."

On the surface, it had been a judicious move. Arline
was far too young and inexperienced to handle the
complicated details of an estate which included farms,
apartment and tenement houses, securities, a newspaper
and controlling interest in a bank. Portia, as the
bank's legal counsel, was already familiar with many
of the details of the estate, and her integrity and good
judgment were well known to Judge Stewart. And
Walter was a competent business man who could, of
course, be counted on to protect his wife's interests.

"I'll never forget Arline's face," Portia murmured.
"It was . . . twisted with hate. Now I know why. How
horrible it must be for her to realize that everything
she owns is controlled by — "

"Her husband — and the woman her husband loves,"
Walter finished, his voice almost inaudible.

"I'll ask Judge Stewart to withdraw the appoint-
ment!" Portia burst out. "It's an intolerable situation
— for you, for Arline, for all of us. I — "

"No!" You mustn't," Walter said quickly. "I won't
let you. You can't afford it, for one thing. Do you
suppose I don't know what a big break this is for you?
And if that weren't enough reason — you know Parkers-
town. Everyone in the place would guess why you'd
withdrawn. I can't let that happen to you."

"But if it makes things worse for everyone — "

"Nothing can make things worse or better for Ar-
line and me," he said in a flat voice. "I've asked her
for a divorce. She said she'd never give me one.
Never." There was a deadly finality in the way he
said it.

% ^ £" -

After a moment he said, almost as if thinking aloud,
"I lie awake at nights, and I have a dream. I dream
that I've run away from Parkerstown, and that I've
taken you with me. We're together, in a place so
beautiful that it probably never existed on this earth.
But — I don't know. I imagine any place . would be
beautiful if I were there with you."

"You mustn't think such things, Walter!", she said
in a panic. For if once she had made a mistake in keep-
ing Walter ignorant of her love for him, now how
much greater a mistake it would be to let him know
of it.

"No, I mustn't think them," he agreed. "I shouldn't
even have told you, I suppose, how we were married.
A man who can't manage his own life isn't a pretty
spectacle."

"I'm glad you told me," she said. ."It helps me to
understand — things that puzzled me."

"I'll take you home," he said, turning the ignition
key in its lock. He seemed listless, resigned, drained
of all energy; and though it wrung her heart to see
him so, she could think of no way to help him. They
drove back in silence.

As the car stopped in front of the cottage where she
lived with Dickie, Portia said, trying to bring back
some semblance of reality to this nightmare conversa-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

1 i 1

Arline sat immobile, one hand clutching
the arm of the sofa, the other in midair
as if to fend off Portia's bitter words.

tion, "Walter, we've no choice — except to do our best
to settle this estate."

"Yes, that's all we can do — our best," he said. She
got out of the car, said good-by, walked slowly up
the path.

The days which followed were busy ones for Portia.
A large part of the responsibility for settling the Har-
rison estate fell on her legal shoulders. Among other
things, she inspected a large block of tenements which
Bryan Harrison had owned. She found them in a
shocking state of neglect, which was extremely strange
because Harrison's accounts showed that thousands
of dollars had been spent in the last year to repair
them. Twice she tried to see Kirk Roder, the real-
estate agent who had handled them for Harrison, but
he seemed to be always engaged or out of town, and
this difficulty in meeting him vaguely increased her
apprehension about the buildings. If there was any-
thing really wrong, she resolved, now more than ever
she must learn about it and set it right.

She became increasingly troubled as the days slipped
by. At night she lay sleepless, the memory of Walter's
tortured face coming between her and the rest she
so badly needed. Her mind twisted and turned with
her restless body. If only she could help him — set him
free from a woman who was sapping his manhood and

JULY, 1941

self-respect! But anything she did would only make
matters worse, push her farther into the disgusting
position of being the "other woman" in an unhappy
marriage.

It was a relief, one morning, when Duke Haw-
thorne's father came to see her, and she found herself
busy with a case that had nothing to do with Arline,
Walter or herself. Duke, a boy barely out of his teens
who lived with his widower father in one of the Harri-
son tenements, was in trouble with the police for the
third time. He was accused of breaking into a fur
store; the proprietor had identified him, and conviction,
which seemed certain, would mean a long prison term.

"But my boy — he did not do it," old Matthias Haw-
thorne insisted. "I know he did not. Never has he
lied to me, and so I know."

"A court will want more proof than that," Portia
reminded him gently. "Hasn't Duke an alibi? Where
was he when the robbery was committed?"

"Alibi? Of course he has an alibi! Duke was with
Joe Kearney, taking a ride in Joe's car."

"Well," Portia smiled, "that makes a difference.
I know Joe well. Ask him to come and see me, and
if he can prove that Duke wasn't anywhere near
the fur store, I'll take the case."

AFTER the old man left, Portia sat at her desk for a
k moment, idly. Cases like this one were what
brought her the greatest satisfaction in her work. She
remembered Joe Kearney very well, because months
before, soon after she took over Richard's practice, she
had defended his son in a murder charge — -and defend-
ed him successfully. That had been a case like this one
— a boy unjustly accused, feeling that the world was
against him, frightened and defiant. It was good to
help such boys. It made you feel that you were re-
building a soul . . .

The smile faded from her lips as the door opened and
Arline Manning walked in, followed by Walter.

Arline's death-white face, her crimson lips, were
shocking against the black of her clothes. Walter
moved with a sick weariness, like a man pushed be-
yond the limits of his endurance, but about Arline
there was an electric atmosphere of determination. It
was obvious that they had been quarreling.

Without preliminary, Arline said. "I would like
some of my money, if you please."

"Arline!" Walter groaned. She paid no attention.

"I'm entitled to it, I think," she said. "I want ten
thousand dollars."

Don't resent this, Portia told herself. Let her be as
autocratic as she likes. Keep your temper. She said as
pleasantly as possible, "Ten thousand dollars, Arline"?
That's a great deal of money. Haven't you been re-
ceiving the weekly payments?" As a temporary
measure, the court had approved an allowance of two
hundred dollars a week in cash for Arline.

"Before your husband and I, as administrators of
the estate, can authorize the withdrawal of such a
large sum, we must know what it is to be spent for."

Arline whirled upon her husband. "Walter, are you
going to let this woman insult me?"

"There's no reason why you should make such a
mystery of all this," Walter said angrily. "If I knew
why she wanted the money," he added to Portia. "I'd
tell you myself."

"Yes! You would!" Arline screamed. "I know you
would — and that's why I didn't tell you! You're against
me, both of you — -you're (Continued on page 46)

and I were-mamed. I'm not progd of it, God g
I think I must have been msane Bu d be &

her car when the wreck happened. I ie p didn,t

She was so near to dymg-and she am ^

want to live if I wouldr, , marry he£ ^ ^

ss^s^iSwtrirUiited; i «* - be

Se Harrison-good for him to have ^^ratum
of someone so lovely, so fresh and waywanL Yet how
could she have foreseen the accident, Arline s injuries,
the tragic, mistaken consequence?

'Her father knew well enough that she meant what
she said," Walter went on bitterly. "He begged me to
give in, and it's hard to say no to a man you ve looked
up to for years— to your boss, the owner of the news-
paper you work on. And I knew you would never
care for anyone but Richard — "

A COLD, glittering wave broke in Portia's heart. This
was it, this was positive assurance of what she had
guessed and feared— that Walter had married Arline
because she herself had never allowed him to believe
his love for her might be returned.

"I was fond of Arline— I thought I could make her
happy. I deluded myself into believing I could bury
my love for you. But somehow Arline guessed how
I feel. And now— since her father died— her jealousy
makes life a hell for both of us."

"She hates me," Portia said. "I knew that a week
ago, when I saw her in the court room."

How beautifully ironic that court room scene had
been! Three people — caught in a trap they could not
escape. For Arline's father had died suddenly, leaving
no will. Arline, naturally, had applied to the court to be
named administratrix of the estate. Judge Stewart,
knowing nothing of the personal elements involved in
the situation, had refused her plea and appointed Portia
and Walter co-administrators of the Harrison fortune.
On the surface, it had been a judicious move. Arline
was far too young and inexperienced to handle the
complicated details of an estate which included farms,
apartment and tenement houses, securities, a newspaper
and controlling interest in a bank. Portia, as the
bank's legal counsel, was already familiar with many
of the details of the estate, and her integrity and good
judgment were well known to Judge Stewart. And
Walter was a competent business man who could, of
course, be counted on to protect his wife's interests.
"I'll never forget Arline's face," Portia murmured.
"It was . . . twisted with hate. Now I know why. How
horrible it must be for her to realize that everything
she owns is controlled by — "

"Her husband — and the woman her husband loves,"
Walter finished, his voice almost inaudible.

"I'll ask Judge Stewart to withdraw the appoint-
ment!" Portia burst out. "It's an intolerable situation
— for you, for Arline, for all of us. I — "

"But if it makes things worse for everyone "

"Nothing can make things worse or better for Ar-
line and me," he said in a flat voice. "I've asked her
for a divorce. She said she'd never give me one
Never There was a deadly finality in the way he

Arline sat immobile, one hand clutching
the arm of the sofa, the other in midair
as if to fend off Portia's bitter words.

"No, I mustn't think them," he agreed. "I shouldn't
even have told you, I suppose, how we were married
A man who can't manage his own life isn't a preW
spectacle."

"I'm glad you told me," she said. "It helps me t0
understand— things that puzzled me." '

"I'll take you home," he said, turning the ign't10
key in its lock. He seemed listless, resigned, dratf*
of all energy; and though it wrung her heart to se
him so, she could think of no way to help him. T,w
drove back in silence. .e

As the car stopped in front of the cottage where i sd
lived with Dickie, Portia said, trying to bring »
some semblance of reality to this nightmare conver

_.. ««SBW *****

tion, "Walter, we've no choice — except to do our best
to settle this estate."

"Yes, that's all we can do — our best," he said. She
got out of the car, said good-by, walked slowly up
the path.

self respect! But anything she did would only make
maters worse, push her farther into the disguTune

nTanSe01 ^ "" "^ ~" * ^SS
" ^as a relief, one morning, when Duke Haw-
thorne s father came to see her, and she found hersSf
busy with a case that had nothing to do with Se
Walter or herself. Duke, a boy barely out of hisWns
who lived with his widower father in one of the Hai Ti-
on tenements, was in trouble with the police for the
hud me. He was accused of breaking into a ur
store; the propnetor had identified him, and conviction

Zr^ld cer;ain:. r uld mean a ione p™ £5

But my boy-he did not do it," old Matthias Haw-
thorne insisted. "I know he did not. Never has he
lied to me, and so I know."

"A court Will want more proof than that," Portia
reminded h.m gently. "Hasn't Duke an alibi? Where
was he when the robbery was committed?"

"Alibi? Of course he has an alibi! Duke was with
Joe Kearney, taking a ride in Joe's ear '

"Well," Portia smiled, "that makes a difference
I know Joe well. Ask him to come and see me and
if he can prove that Duke wasn't anywhere near
the fur store, I'll take the case."

AFTER the old man left, Portia sat at her desk for e
moment, idly. Cases like this one were what

brought her the greatest satisfaction in her work She
remembered Joe Kearney very well, because months
before, soon after she took over Richard's practice, she
had defended his son in a murder charge — and defend-
ed him successfully. That had been a case like this one
—a boy unjustly accused, feeling that the world was
against him, frightened and defiant. It was good to
help such boys. It made you feel that you were re
building a soul . . .

The smile faded from her lips as the door opened and
Arline Manning walked in, followed by Walter.

Without preliminary, Arline said. "I would [ike
some of my money, if you please "

"Arline!" Walter groaned. She paid no attention
"I'm entitled to it. I think," she said. "I wanl ten
thousand dollars."

Don't resent this, Portia told herself. Let her be as
autocratic as she likes. Keep your temper. She said a.v
pleasantly as possible, "Ten thousand dollars, Arline?
That's a great deal of money. Haven't you been re-
ceiving the weekly payments9" A.s a temporary
measure, the court had approved an allowance of two
hundred dollars a week in cash for Arline

"Certainly I've been receiving them. You'd have
heard from me if I hadn't," Arline said. "I happen
to need an extra ten thousand." Her voice was con-
trolled, but her breast betrayed a rising excitement.
"Before your husband and I, as administrators of
the estate, can authorize the withdrawal of such a
large sum, we must know what it is to be spent for."
Arline whirled upon her husband. "Walter, are you
going to let this woman insult me?"

"There's no reason why you should make such a
mystery of all this." Walter said angrily. "If I knew
why she wanted the money," he added to Portia. "I'd
tell you myself."

"Yes! You would!" Arline screamed. "I know you
would — -and that's why I didn't tell you! You're against
me, both of you — you're (Continued on page 46)

RADIO AND

TELEVISION

/£^ia& K$c/teto

Easy to prepare with un-
cooked cereal is this re-
freshing mousse, served
right out of the icebox.

SINCE the temperature is rising
rapidly these days, I believe
now is a good time to consider
recipes dedicated to a cool kitchen;
meal planning which will not only
assure appetizing, well balanced and
economical meals but which will in
addition cut down on the time usu-
ally spent in the kitchen. This de-
crease in cooking time may be
achieved during the summer months
especially by the use of uncooked
cereals as recipe ingredients, the
use of prepared products which re-

BY HATE SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Listen to Kate Smith's dally talks over
CBS at 12 noon, E.D.S.T., and her Friday
night variety show at 8:00 on CBS
both sponsored by General Foods.

quire little if any cooking time and
by choosing dishes which may be
prepared early in the day and placed
in the refrigerator all ready for the
noontime or evening meal.

This may sound as though I'm
suggesting an entire summer of cold
dishes, but this isn't the case. Hot
dishes we must have, even in warm
weather, but summer vegetables
cook quickly, broiled and pan
broiled meats take only a few min-
utes and even their preparation is
made easier by the knowledge that
the dessert and salad are waiting in
the refrigerator all ready to be
served.

One of my favorite hot weather
meat courses is lamb patties
wrapped with bacon, so suppose we
start off our month's recipes with
them.

Lamb Patties

1% lbs. lean lamb
1 tsp. salt
Vb tsp. pepper
6 slices bacon

Use lean meat from breast, neck,

shank or shoulder for grinding.

Season with salt and pepper and

form into six patties. Wrap a slice

Takes only fifteen minutes
— a good hot weather
meat course is lamb pat-
ties wrapped with bacon.

of bacon, notched with a sharp knife
or scissors so it will not separate
from the patty during cooking,
around each one and broil, first on
one side then on the other, for 12 to
15 minutes.

Since pie is one of our most pop-
ular desserts and strawberries one
of our most popular fruits, I know
you will be as happy as I am about
this strawberry pie made with a
crust of uncooked cereal, either
puffed or flaked.

Strawberry Pie

Crust

7 cups uncooked cereal 2 tbls. sugar
3 tbls. butter 1 egg yolk

2 tbls. milk

Put cereal through food chopper,
using medium knife. Cream butter,
add sugar and cream together thor-
oughly. Beat egg yolk, add milk
and stir into creamed butter, then
combine with cereal. Turn mixture
into pie tin and press into uniform
layer over bottom and sides of pan.
Place in moderate oven (350 degrees
F.) for 6 to 10 minutes. Chill thor-
oughly before adding filling.

Filling

1 package prepared vanilla pudding

1 cup sliced strawberries

RADIO AND TELEVISION TvHRHOR

The family will enjoy this
strawberry pie made with a
crust of uncooked cereal,
either puffed or flaked.

with gelatin. This one's
made of shredded cabbage.

Prepare pudding according to di-
rections. Cool to room temperature
and fold in sliced strawberries.
Cool. When thoroughly chilled, but
before mixture has set, pour into
crust and place in refrigerator un-
til serving time. Garnish with
sliced strawberries.

Mousse, another favorite form of
cold dessert, may also be made with
uncooked cereal, though the small
nutlike cereal is preferable for this.

Mousse

Vz cup sugar
Vi cup water

2 egg whites stiffly beaten

1 cup cream, whipped
% tsp. vanilla
Yi cup uncooked cereal

Boil sugar and water together un-
til syrup spins a thread when
dropped from spoon. Pour slowly
over beaten egg whites, beating con-
stantly, and continue beating until
mixture is cool (about 3 minutes).
Fold in whipped cream and va-
nilla, then cereal. Mixture may be
turned into freezing tray of refrig-
erator, or poured into a mold and
covered tightly and frozen in equal
parts ice and salt. Freezing time
either way, 3 to 4 hours.

JVLY, 1941

Peaches and bananas seem to have
a natural affinity for each other and
their flavors have never combined
better than in peach banana mold.

Peach Banana Mold

1 package lime-flavored gelatin
1 pint hot water
Vi cup sliced peaches
1 sliced banana

Dissolve gelatin in hot water. Ar-
range sliced peaches on bottom of
mold, pour on gelatin being careful
not to disarrange peaches. When
gelatin begins to set, add sliced ba-
nanas. Chill until firm.

Tender young summer cabbage
forms the basis of a cool molded
salad which is served with mayon-
naise seasoned to taste with horse-
radish sauce.

Molded Cabbage Salad

1 package lemon-flavored gelatin
1 cup hot water
1 cup tomato juice

1 tbl. lemon juice % tsp. salt

2 cups shredded cabbage

1 medium cucumber shredded

2 scallions, sliced very thin
Dissolve gelatin in hot water. Add

tomato juice and allow to cool.
When mixture begins to stiffen stir
in remaining ingredients and turn
into mold. Chill until firm.

IF camping figures in your summer
vacation plans, here is a recipe
just for you. Split frankfurters
lengthwise, but do not cut com-
pletely apart, and top each liberally
with baked beans. Heat piping hot
in heavy iron skillet, covered, over
very low flame, using just enough
butter to prevent sticking. If your
camp cooking equipment boasts an
oven, bake in covered casserole at
moderate temperature (350-375 de-
grees F.) for thirty minutes. Serv-
ing note: Shiny baking pans from
your local five and ten cent store
make attractive and sturdy serving
dishes for camp use.

/^ik& K$chat

The family will enjoy this
strawberry pie made with a
crust of uncooked cereal,
either puffed or flaked!

BY KATE SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Listen fo Kote Smith's daily tofts over
CBS at J2 noon. E.D.S.T., and her Friday
night variety show at 8:00 on CBS
both sponsored by General Foods.
36

quire little if any cooking time and
by choosing dishes which may be
prepared early in the day and placed
in the refrigerator all ready for the
noontime or evening meal.

One of my favorite hot weather
meat courses is lamb patties
wrapped with bacon, so suppose we
start off our month's recipes with
them.

Lamb Patties

1% lbs. lean lamb
1 tsp. salt
% tsp. pepper
6 slices bacon

Use lean meat from breast, neck
shank or shoulder for grinding'
Season with salt and pepper and
form into six patties. Wrap a slice

Takes only fifteen minutes
—a good hot weather
meat course is lamb pat-
ties wrapped with bacon.

of bacon, notched with a sharp knife
or scissors so it will not separate
from the patty during cooking,
around each one and broil, first on
one side then on the other, for 12 to
15 minutes.

Strawberry Pie

Crust

7 cups uncooked cereal 2 tbls. sugar
3 tbls. butter 1 egg yolk

2 tbls. milk
Put cereal through food choppy
using medium knife. Cream butter,
add sugar and cream together thor-
oughly. Beat egg yolk, add m"*
and stir into creamed butter, the
combine with cereal. Turn rni*tu*
into pie tin and press into unifo*
layer over bottom and sides of P .
Place in moderate oven (350 de^
F.) for 6 to 10 minutes. Chill tW»
oughly before adding filling.
Filling

1 package prepared vanilla pudding
1 cup sliced strawberries

HADIO AND TELEVISION

Mousse, another favorite form of
cold dessert, may also be made with
uncooked cereal, though the small
nuthke cereal is preferable for this.

Mousse

% cup sugar
% cup water

2 egg whites stiffly beaten

l cup cream, whipped
% tsp. vanilla
Yt cup uncooked cereal

•n/LY, 1941

Peaches and bananas seem to have
a natural affinity for each other and
their flavors have never combined
better than in peach banana mold.

Peach Banana Mold

1 package lime-flavored gelatin
1 pint hot water
Vz cup sliced peaches
1 sliced banana

Dissolve gelatin in hot water. Ar-
range sliced peaches on bottom of
mold, pour on gelatin being careful
not to disarrange peaches. When
gelatin begins to set, add sliced ba-
nanas. Chill until firm.

Tender young summer cabbage
forms the basis of a cool molded
salad which is served with mayon-
naise seasoned to taste with horse-
radish sauce.

Molded Cabbage Salad

1 package lemon-flavored gelatin
1 cup hot water
1 cup tomato juice

1 tbl. lemon juice Vi tsp. salt

2 cups shredded cabbage

1 medium cucumber shredded

2 scallions, sliced very thin
Dissolve gelatin in hot water. Add

tomato juice and allow to cool.
When mixture begins to stiffen stir
in remaining ingredients and turn
into mold. Chill until firm.

Meet Eugenie Baird, 17-year-old song-
stress from Pittsburgh, who is a re-
cent addition to Tony Pastor's band.

. . . and Ginger Maylen, 20 years old,
Texas-born and tiny, who is vocal-
ist with Charlie Sprvak's orchestra

«*

. . . and last but not least, Paula
Kelly, who replaced Dorothy Claire
when the latter left Glenn Miller

THE Tommy Dorsey marital row
didn't exactly rock music land.
Insiders had been expecting it. The
trombonist's wife, Mildred, has sued
for divorce and the case will be tried
in New Jersey with charges sealed.
The Dorseys have two children.

* * *

The battle between Bobby Byrne
and' Glenn Miller over singer Doro-
thy Claire has had an unexpected
climax giving Byrne the winning
verdict. If you recall, the blonde
vocalist left Bobby for Glenn when
Marian Hutton quit the latter's band
to have a baby. Glenn gave Dorothy
a larger salary. But Bobby protested
loudly, threatening legal action.
Glenn thought twice, discussed the
squabble amiably with Bobby and
now Dorothy is back with Byrne.
Glenn then went out and lured
Paula Kelly, Al Donahue's former
canary, out of retirement. Kay
Little, who joined Bobby when
Dorothy quit, has caught on with
Del Courtney. This makes every-
body happy.

* * *

Horace Heidt vigorously denies he
is leaving the band business. He's
just added Ronnie Kemper, former-
ly with Dick Jurgens. However,
singer Jean Farney quit the Heidt
troupe to wed Jimmy Butler, a
young film actor.

* * *

Art Jarrett has taken over the
remnants of the late Hal Kemp's
old band and they can be heard from
Chicago's Black Hawk Cafe.

* * *

Vaughn Monroe was secretly
screen tested by Paramount. He is
getting a tremendous buildup be-
cause he is one of the few singing
leaders among the newcomers. It
seems people are tiring of indus-
trious but colorless maestros who
hide most of their personality be-
hind a horn or a set of drums. A
decade ago it was different. Top-
notchers like Rudy Vallee, Will Os-
borne, Buddy Rogers, were all sing-
ers. Another movie candidate is
Jack Leonard. He may sign with
20th Century-Fox if Uncle Sam
doesn't put him in khaki first.

* * *

THIS CHANGING WORLD: Billy
Buttcrfield, one of the trulv great

trumpet stylists, has joined Benny
Goodman's band. Another of Ben-
ny's acquisitions is Les Robinson,
lead alto, formerly with Artie
Shaw's old band . . . Freddy Slack,
crack boogie woogie pianist, has quit
the Bradley-McKinley team and
will probably organize his own
band. Bob Holt, a pianist discov-
ered by Bradley in Worcester, Mass.,
has replaced Slack . . . Johnny Long
has a new drummer, Jules Mendel -
son, formerly with Joe Venuti . . .
The Andrews Sisters are back on
the Universal lot for a third film.
This one's called "Ride 'em Cow-
boy." . . . Freddy Martin remains
at the Los Angeles Cocoanut Grove
until September . . . Dick Rogers is
back in New York's Roseland for the

summer.

* * *

There's a story going the rounds
about a prominent sponsor of a big
time musical show who heard a
rival's program. He excitedly called
his own musical director and asked
him if he had heard so-and-so's
show. The maestro replied that he
had.

"Well," asked the sponsor, "Did
you notice that startling musical
effect in- the third number?"

"Yes," gulped the musician.

"And the tremendous musical
bridge right after the middle com-
mercial?"

"Yes," said the musician again,
this time worrying whether a bawl-
ing out was due from the boss.

"Well," shouted the sponsor final-
ly, "Never do that on MY program.

It's terrible!"

* * *

John Kirby, who is rating bows
for his musical work on CBS'
Duffy's Tavern, used to be a pull-
man dining car waiter.

* * *

Barry Wood has been renewed for
the seventh consecutive time on The

Hit Parade.

* # *

Frankie Carle, the composer of
"Sunrise Serenade" and Horace
Heidt's pianist, has not sufficiently
recovered from a nervous break-
down and has been forced to rest

some more.

* * #

Jimmy Blake, trumpet player

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

By KEN ALDEN

with Tommy Dorsey's band, is a
happy musician. Last fall, Jimmy
nearly died with the trumpet
player's occupational disease — lung
collapse. He would have died, ex-
cept for Tommy, who sent him to
John Hopkins for treatment by the
country's greatest specialists, pro-
vided a room in his own home for
the subsequent rest cure, along with *
the services of Mrs. Dorsey herself
as private nurse and dietician. Best
of all, Tommy kept Jimmy on the
payroll for the entire eleven months
of his illness. One of the miracles
of the orchestra world will happen
this month, when Jimmy goes back
to work at the same old stand. Most
trumpet players who have that ill-
ness take up knitting afterward —
if there is an afterward.

* # *

Paul Tremaine, who had a big
name in the band business quite
a few years ago, is trying a come-
back.

* * #

When Ray Noble goes to Catalina
Island this spring his new vocalist
will be Snooky Lanson, succeeding
Larry Stewart.

* * *

Bob Allen, former vocalist with
Hal Kemp, is father of a son.

BROTHER ACT

WHEN Raymond Scott is urged
to talk about his mercurial
musical career he can be as shy as a
Gary Cooper movie character, and
as vague as some of those song titles
he's concocted.

But mention the name of his
brother Mark Warnow, another
celebrated orchestra leader, and the
words flow as smoothly as the
rhythms of either one's brass sec-
tion.

"Listen," says the dark-haired,
soft-skinned leader, "Mark spon-
sored my entire musical career. He
bought my first piano and then beat
the hide off me when I didn't prac-
tise. He cut short any ideas I had
of being an engineer and put me
through musical school. When I got
finished there he got me a job with
the CBS house band. And just to
show you how thorough the guy is,
he even changed my name!"

There was a good deal of logic

JULY, 1941

behind the big brother's last deci-
sion. He believed potential spon-
sors might confuse Mark and Harry
Warnow. Mark picked the name
Raymond Scott at random, then
hunted through telephone books to
find out if there was anyone else by
that name in show business. As luck
would have it, the Manhattan direc-
tory listed one Raymond Scott. He
turned out to be an elderly man who
played trumpet in Edwin Franko
Goldman's Central Park band. For-
tunately he had a sense of humor
and raised no objections to having
his name listed.

A telephone book also played an-
other important part in the 31 -year-
old composer-conductor's life. It
helped to get him a wife.

A tireless practical joker, Ray
thought it fun to search for the
names of girls in telephone books.
If their voices sounded attractive,
he asked for a blind date.

"My plan wasn't too successful,"
he explained, "because all the nice
girls hung up."

Not easily discouraged, he devised
a new plan. This time he kept a
voice recording machine close to the
receiver. His next victim was Pearl
Stevens. This young lady didn't
hang up without first giving the
brash intruder a vigorous denuncia-
tion for such ungentlemanly tactics.
But a few minutes later, when the
phone bell jangled again, the girl
was speechless. For this time she
heard her own voice coming back.
The trick crushed all resistance.

"Just what do you want?" she
asked helplessly.

"A date," Ray replied quickly.

Pearl turned out better than he
could have possibly expected and
soon the couple were married. They
now reside in a pleasant, rented
house in Tuckahoe, N. Y., and have
a two-and-a-half year old daughter,
Carolyn, who, Ray says, is "nuts
about brass bands."

Mark shouldered the responsibil-
ity of raising his younger brother
because their father, the proprietor
of a Brooklyn music store, died
when both of them were quite
young. Nine years older then Harry,
Mark helped his mother run the
modest household. As soon as Mark
established (Continued on page 72)

Raymond Scott, the 3 1 -year-old com-
poser-conductor never talks about
his career, but mention brother Mark —

He has made his brother Raymond's
career his career too. Above, Mark
Warnow and his daughter Sandra.

J*/**

Fft

AS their car sped out of the dark-
f\ erring city, Clark Kent and
* * Lois Lane, the Daily Planet's
star reporters, could hear the
hoarse cries of newsboys shouting
the news of a great disaster:

"EXTRA— EXTRA— THIRTEEN
DIE IN MELVILLE FACTORY
EXPLOSION— EXTRA— ' '

Assigned by City Editor Perry
White to get an eye-witness story
of the catastrophe, the man and girl
covered the 42 miles to the factory
town in less than an hour. They
gasped as they found the piles of
twisted steel and broken brick that
marked the site of the once busy
and prosperous factory of Hans Hol-
bein. The bodies had already been
removed and now the wreckage was
deserted. Kent, jerking to a stop,
hopped out of the car.

"Wait a minute, Miss Lane — I
want to take a look around here."

But Lois didn't wait. Before Kent
could stop her, she slammed the door
and stepped on the gas. He heard
her shout back:

"I'm not waiting! If you think I
came along to watch you get a story,
you're crazy! I'm going up to inter-
view Mr. Holbein at his home!"

Kent shrugged his shoulders and
walked back to the ruins. He could
not know then the consequences of
Lois' reckless impulse. When the

servant admitted her into Holbein's
drawing room, the factory owner
seemed nervous and shaken. That
was natural enough and, at first, he
talked unhesitatingly about the ac-
cident. He told the girl reporter that
he had been manufacturing dolls for
20 years and that the explosion had
been caused, apparently, by the
bursting of a boiler in the basement.

As Lois thanked him and got up
to leave, she casually mentioned
that she was going to stop by at the
factory to pick up her fellow re-
porter. Holbein's face blanched. -

"Another reporter? What's he
doing at the factory?"

"Oh, he's probably rummaging
through the bricks — "

Holbein's tone became menac-
ing— "Oh, he is, is he?"

"Of course, he won't find any-
thing—"

"I am not so sure about that —
maybe he will find something — so in
case he does I think you better stay
here. . . ."

Frantically, Lois ran to the door
and seized the knob. But she
couldn't move the securely locked
massive oak barrier. Seeing the set
cruel expression that covered Hol-
bein's heavy features, frightened by
the cold thoughts of an unknown
terror, she faced her captor:

"So you are hiding something —

something about the explosion."

"Yes, I am hiding something —
and if your friend finds out what I
am hiding — you will never leave
this house alive!"

Meanwhile Clark Kent, rummag-
ing through the wreckage, made an
astonishing discovery. The boiler
was intact! But what had caused
the explosion? The time for ordi-
nary methods had passed — Kent
made a quick decision. And, in that
second, Clark Kent became — Super-
man. His ordinary street clothes
were off in a flash and he stood
there, revealed in the half-light, in
the avenging blue costume of the
man from another world.

Effortlessly, he burrowed through
the bricks, pushing huge beams and
steel walls aside. He found a pack-
ing case filled with dolls and with
one hand split the heavy boards
open. His eyes widened as he ex-
amined a doll which had cracked.
Then he picked up another — and
another — and another. Each, when
it was torn open, disclosed the same
thing. A small metal cylinder was
hidden cleverly in every doll! He
waited for nothing else. Seizing a
handful of the dolls,' Superman
stood poised for a moment, then —

"Holbein, things don't look so
good for you. I think we have the
answer. (Continued on page 74)

Bound tightly, Lois lay in the drifting boat. Mo-
ment by moment the high wind and fast-ebbing
tide carried the frail craft farther out to sea.

When Superman smashed through the door, the doll
man was standing beside an odd-looking cabinet.
"Come no nearer," he cried. "Don't touch me!"

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

<fP**^W

Bill Stem interviews movie actress Adrienne Ames on his Sunday night
NBC sports broadcast. Bill has a different famous guest almost every week.

ON THE A I

Bill Stern, broadcasting highlights from
the sports news of the day, on NBC-Blue
at 9:45, E.D.S.T., sponsored by Colgate's
Shaving Cream.

If you know a 'teen-age boy who insists
on pretending that he's broadcasting a
football game while he's taking a shower,
don't try to restrain him. He may turn out
to be another Bill Stern, who almost drove
his parents crazy with that trick, back in
Rochester, N. Y. Today Bill is not only
NBC's crack sports announcer, but also
the broadcasting company's executive in
charge of all sports events on the air. From
his small but comfortable office at NBC
he makes all arrangements for broad-
casting everything from football games to
ping-pong tournaments. Frequently he
announces the events himself, and in ad-
dition he has his regular weekly network
program, which you hear tonight, plus a
fifteen-minute sports news show, five
nights a week, heard only in New York
City. Plus, just for good measure, the
commentary for the sports sections of
three newsreels every week.

In his leisure time, which isn't extensive,
Bill lives in a six-room apartment in New
York City with his wife and year-old son.
The baby's name is Peter because, Bill
says, he figured he'd done about all he
could with the name of Bill and wanted
to give his son a new one.

Bill plans on taking a vacation this sum-
mer— the first in six years. He doesn't
really want a vacation now, because he
enjoys his work so much he hates to

For Eastern Standard Time or Central Daylight w
Time, subtract one hour from Eastern Daylight Time.

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 1: Tonight's your last chance to hear Jack Benny's show before it leaves the air
for a summer vacation. ... Sir Thomas Beecham directs the CBS Symphony.

June 8: Taking Benny's place for the summer is Reg'lar Fellers, radio version of the
famous comic strip. Listen at 7:00 on NBC-Red . . . Mickey Rooney is Charlie
McCarthy's guest on the Chase and Sanborn show, NBC-Red at 8:00.

June 15: Carmen Miranda, the Brazilian beauty, visits Charlie McCarthy tonight.

June 22: Betty Humby, English pianist, is guest star on the CBS Symphony.

J:35

•05

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a
as

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TODAY:

leave, but Mrs. Stern says either he'll take
a rest or there will be trouble in the Stern
household. Bill, like a sensible husband,
is going to let her have her way.

For a man who sleeps and eats sports,
Bill is very modest about his knowledge
of the subject. He doesn't consider him-
self an expert, but he does know the rules
of any game you could mention, backward
and forward. He reads every book about
sports that's published, and owns what
is probably New York's biggest sports
library. He doesn't play any game him-
self, now, although in Penn Military Col-
lege, from which he graduated in 1930,
he played varsity football, tennis and
basketball, boxed, and was on the crew.

Before putting his shower-tub practice
in sports broadcasting to use, Bill knocked
around quite a bit. An attempt to break
into the movies in Hollywood drew a
blank, unless you call digging post-holes
on the RKO lot getting ahead in the
world. Later he was an assistant stage-
manager at the Roxy Theater, then stage
manager of the Music Hall and Center
Theater in Radio City. He begged an NBC
executive to let him broadcast part of a
football game, the executive finally got
tired of being bothered and consented —
and Bill was on his way.

His job takes Bill all over the country
and once, on his way to cover a football
game in Texas, he had an accident in
which his car was completely smashed
and he himself was so battered that he
had to stay in a hospital for six months.

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Ea tern Daylight Time

00 CBS News

00 NBC-Blue: News

00 NBC- Red Organ Recital

8:30
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NBC-Blue. Tone Pictures
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

CBS: News at Europe
NBC: News from Europe

NBC-Blue: White Rabbit Line
NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

CBS: Wings Over Jordan
NBC-Red: Lee Gordon Orch.

CBS: Church ot the Air

NBC-Blue Primrose String Quartet

NBC-Red: Radio PulpK

NBC-Blue: Southernaires

CBS: News and Rhythm
NBC-Blue: Alice Remsen

CBS: MAJOR BOWES FAMILY
NBC-Blue: Treasure Trails ot Song
NBC-Red: Music and Youth

NBC-Red: Emma Otero

NBC-Blue: I'm an American

CBS: Salt Lake City Tabernacle
NBC-Blue: Radio City Music Hal
NBC-Red Pageant of Art

CBS. Church of the Air
NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

CBS. March of Games
NBC-Blue: JOSEF MARAIS
NBC Red: On Your Job

NBC-Red: NBC String Symphony

NBC-Blue Foreign Policy Assn.

NBC-Blue: Tapestry Musicale
NBC-Red: University of Chicago
Round Table

CBS: Meet the Music

CBS: Columbia Symphony
MBS. The Americas Speak
NBC-Blue. Great Plays

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

NBC-Blue: National Vespers
NBC-Red Murie! Angelus

CBS Pause that Refreshes
NBC-Blue: Behind the Mike
NBC-Red: Charles Dant Orch.

MBS. Musical Steelmakers
NBC-Blue: Moylan Sisters
NBC-Red Joe and Mabel

NBC-Blue Olivio Santoro

CBS: Ned Sparks Show
NBC-Red: Roy Shields Orch.

CBS Ed Sullivan
MBS: Double or Nothing
NBC-Blue: Blue Barron Orch.
NBC-Red: Catholic Hour

CBS Gene Autry and Dear Mom
MBS: Show of the We-fc
NBC-Red: Dr. I. Q. Junio.

NBC-Blue: News .rem Europe
NBC-Red JACK BENNY

CBS: Girl About Town

CBS: World News Tonight
NBC-Blue: Pearson and Allen
NBC-Red: Fitch Bandwagon

MBS: Wythe Williams

CBS: HELEN HAYES

NBC-Blue: Star Spangled Theater

NBC-Red CHARLIE MCCARTHY

CBS: Crime Doctor

NBC-Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery

NBC-Red: ONE MAN'S FAMILY

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: FORD HOUR
MBS: Old Fashioned Revival
NBC-Blue: Walter Winched
NBC-Red: Manhattan Merry-Go-
Round

NBC-Blue; The Parker Family

NBC-Blue: Irene Rich
NBC-Red: American Album ot
Familiar Music

NBC-Blue Bill Stern Sports Review

CBS. Take It or Leave It
NBC-Blue: Goodwill Hour
NBC-Red Hour of Charm

CBS: Columbia Workshop

30|NBC-Red: Deadline Dramas

1:00 CBS: Headlines and Bylines
1:00, NBC Dance Orchestra

INSIDE RADIO-The Radio Mirror Almanac-Programs from May 28 to June 24

JULY, 1941

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MONDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

9:45
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NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Hymns of All Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Three Romeos
NBC- Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC- Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman ot Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red: Lone Journey

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC- Red: Words and Music
CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS. Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday
CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young
CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne
NBC-Red: The Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley
NBC-Blue: Midstream
NBC- Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride
NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hil
NBC- Red: Ma Perkins

3:30 CBS: A Friend in Deed
3:30'NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
3:30 NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

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CBS: Lecture Hall
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue
NBC- Red:

Mother of Mine
Backstage Wife

Club Matinee
Stella Dallas

CBS: Bess Johnson

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Il30
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4:30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

4:45 NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

5:00 CBS: Mary Marlin

5:00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

5:00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

5:15 CBS: The Goldbergs

5:15 NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

5:30 CBS: The O'Neills

5:30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

5:30 NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

5:45 CBS: Scattergood Baines
5:45 NBC-Blue: Gasoline Alley
5:4S NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

6:00 CBS: Edwin C. Hill

6:10 CBS: Bob Trout

6:15 CBS Hedda Hopper

6:30 CBS Paul Sullivan

6:45 CBS The World Today
6:45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
6:45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas
7:00 CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
7:00 NBC-Blue: This is the Show
7:00 NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
7:15 CBS: Lanny Ross
7:15 NBC-Red: European News
7:30 CBS: BLONDIE
7:30 MBS Tho Lone Ranger
7:30 NBC-Red: Cavalcade of America
8:00 CBS: Thoso We Lovo
8:00 MBS Amazing Mr. Smith
8:00 NIX -Blue I Love a Mystery
8:00 NBC-Red: The Telophone Hour
8:30 CBSi GAY NINETIES
8:30 NBC-Blue: Truo or False
8:30 NBC-Red: Voice of Firestone
8:55 CBS Elmer Davis
9:00 CBS LUX THEATER
9:00 MBS Gabriel Hoattor
9:00 NBC-Blue: Basin Street Music
9:00 Nlll Ki'l Doctor I. Q.
9:55 NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man
10:00 ( I'.S Guy Lombardo
10:00 MBS Raymond Gram Swing
10:00 NBC-Blue: Famous Jury Trials
10:00 NIX -Red Contontod Hour
10:30 CBS Girl About Town
10:30 NBC-Blue: Radio Forum

She's Bess Johnson both on
and off her CBS serial show.

1:00

9:15
12:15

12:45

11:45

9:45

11:00

10:00
2:15

HAVE YOU TUNED IN...

The story of Bess Johnson, heard Mon-
days through Fridays on both NBC-Red
and CBS— 10:00 A.M., E.D.S.T., and 9:15
A.M. Pacific Time on NBC and 4:30,
E.D.S.T. on CBS — sponsored by Palmolive
Soap.

The tall, blonde heroine of The Story of
Bess Johnson is the only actress in radio
who plays the leading role of a daytime
serial under her own name. She's Bess
Johnson both off and on the air, and is
heard exclusively on this program. As
you'll remember unless you're a brand
new listener, Bess Johnson used to be the
heroine of a serial called Hilltop House.
Because of an involved state of affairs
which we won't go into here, Hilltop
House as the title of a serial became no
longer available to Bess's sponsors — so
they simply had the fictional Bess lose her
job as matron of the Hilltop House
orphanage and gave her a new one as
Dean of a girl's school.

The story of the real Bess Johnson is
almost as exciting as the story of the
make-believe Bess you hear on the air.
Bess was a stage actress until her daugh-
ter Jane was born. Then she turned to
advertising, and before long became
known from coast to coast as the Lady
Esther who announced the old Wayne
King programs. At the same time, she
was playing one of the leading parts in
Today's Children. But people were for-
getting there was such a person as Bess
Johnson, so she quit and came to New
York, where she began the Hilltop House
series — using her real name for her net-
work character so there'd be no danger
of losing her identity again.

Last winter, for the first time since Jane
was born, Bess and her daughter have been
separated while the latter attended board-
ing school in Connecticut.

During the summer months they're both
living at a dude ranch, just like a western
one, near New York City, with Bess com-
muting to town every day for her programs.
Bess's favorite recreation, outside of reading
mystery stories, is horseback riding, and she
keeps her own horse, a gray and white pony
named Misty, at the ranch, riding when-
ever she gets a chance.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 2: We, the Abbotts, switches from
CBS to NBC-Red at a new time . . . Mary
Small stars in a new program starting
tonight at 10: 15 on Mutual . . . Francia
White returns to NBC's Telephone hour
after a two-week absence.

June 17: Listen to Bob Hope tonight — it's
his last program of the season.

7:00

7:45
7:45

TUESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

9:00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

9:45 CBS: Hymns of all Churches
9:45 \B< -Red. Edward MacHugh
10:00 CBS. By Kathleen Norris

8:00 10:00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

8:00
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CBS: Myrt and Marqe
NBC-Blue: Vagabonds
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS. Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red : Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver .
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Mary Lee Taylor
< . -Red: Mary Marlin

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Martha Webster

Red: Pepper Young's Family

Big Sister

Red: Lone Journey

Aunt Jenny's Stories
Red: David Harum

KATE SMITH SPEAKS
Red: Words and Music

When a Girl Marries
Red: The O'Neills

Romance of Helen Trent
Blue: Farm and Home Hour

2:45
2:45
2:45

3:00
3:00
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CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
CBS.
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young
CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne

MBS: George Fisher

NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride
NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hil
NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

10:00
10:00

CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

NBC-
NBC-
NBC-
NBC-
NBC-
NBO
CBS:
NBC
NBC
CBS:
NBC
NBC
CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
CBS:
CBS:
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
MBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
CBS:
NBC-
NBC
CBS:
NBC
NBC
NBC-
CBS:
MBS

A Friend in Deed

Blue: John's Other Wife

Red: The Guiding Light

Blue: Just Plain Bill

Red:

10:00 NBC
10:00 NBC
10:15JCBS:
10:30 NBC
10:30 NBC
10:45lCBS:

Vic and Sade
Blue: Mother of Mine
Red: Backstage Wife
Blue: Club Matinee
Red: Stella Dallas
Bess Johnson
Red: Lorenzo Jones
Red: Young Widder Brown
Mary Marlin
Blue: Children's Hour
Red: Home of the Brave
The Goldbergs
Red: Portia Faces Life
The O'Neills

Blue: Drama Behind Headlines
Red: We, the Abbotts
Scattergood Baines
Blue: Gasoline Alley
Red: Jack Armstrong
Edwin C. Hill
News

Paul Sullivan
The World Today
Blue: Lowell Thomas
Red: Paul Douglas
Amos 'n' Andy
Blue: EASY ACES
Red Fred Waring's Gang
Lanny Ross
Blue: Mr. Keen
Red: European News
Helen Menken
Red: H. V. Kaltenborn
Court of Missing Heirs

Wythe Williams
Red: Johnny Presents
FIRST NIGHTER
Blue: Uncle Jim's Question Bee
Red: Horace Heidt
Elmer Davis
We, the People
Blue: Grand Central Station
Red: Battle of the Sexes
Invitation to Learning
-Blue: Concert Music
-Red: McGee and Molly
Blue: The Nickel Man
Glenn Miller

Raymond Gram Swing
Blue: New American Music
Red: BOB HOPE
Public Affairs

Red: College Humor
Blue: Edward Weeks
News ot the Wold

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

9:15
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WEDNESDAY

j_ Eastern Daylight Time

7:0r

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6:45l 8:45110
JULY, 1941

15 NBC-Blue Who's Blue

15 NBC-Red. Gene and Glenn

30 NBC-Blue: Ray Perkins

00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

45 CBS: Betty Crocker

45 NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

00 CBS: By Kathleen Norris

00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

15 CBS: Myrt and Marge

15 NBC-Blue: Vagabonds

15 NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

30 CBS: Stepmother

30 NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis

30 NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

45 CBS: Woman ot Courage

4: NBC-Blue: Wife Saver

4 NBC-Red: The Road of Life

00 CBS: Treat Time

00 NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

13 CBS: Martha Webster

15 NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

30 CBS Big Sister

30 NBC-Red: Lone Journey

45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories

45 NBC-Red: David Harum

00 CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS

00 NBC-Red: Words and Music

15 CBS: When a Girl Marries

15 NBC-Red: The O'Neills

30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent

30 NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful

MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White

MBS. Edith Adams' Future

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness

MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life

MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone

NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne

NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Lecture Hall

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
Vic and Sade
Mother of Mine
Backstage Wife
Club Matinee
Stella Dallas

30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

45 NBC-Blue: Edgar A. Guest

45 NBC- Red: Young Widder Brown

00 CBS: Mary Marlin

00. NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

NBC-Red
NBC-Blue
NBC- Red:
NBC-Blue
NBC- Red:

CBS: Bess Johnson

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Scattergood Baines

NBC-Blue: Gasoline Alley

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: Bob Trout

CBS: Hedda Hopper

CBS: Paul Sullivan

CBS: The World Today

NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang

CBS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

NBC-Red: European News

CBS: Meet Mr. Meek

MBS: The Lone Ranger

NBC-Red: Fisk Jubilee Singers

CBS: Big Town

NBC-Blue: Quiz Kids

NBC-Red: Tony Martin

NBC- Red: How Did You Meet

CBS: Dr. Christian

MBS: Boake Carter

NBC-Blue: Manhattan at Midnight

NBC-Red: Plantation Party

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: FRED ALLEN

MBS: Gabriel Heatter

NBC-Red: Eddie Cantor

NBC-Red: Mr. District Attorney

NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

CBS: Glenn Miller

MBS: Raymond Gram Swing

NBC-Blue: Author's Playhouse

NBC-Red: KAY KYSER

CBS: Public Affairs

CBS: Juan Arvizu

NBC-Blue: Doctors at Work

CBS News of the World

Anne Elstner plays long-
suffering Stella Dallas on NBC.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN...

Stella Dallas, the dramatic serial heard
Mondays through Fridays at 4: 15 P.M.,
E.D.S.T., over NBC-Red, sponsored by
Phillips Milk of Magnesia.

Here's one of radio's most popular and
longest-running continued stories — and
you'll know why if you've ever listened, or
even if you read the novel of the same name
by Olive Higgins Prouty, or saw either of the
two successful movies. The radio Stella
Dallas takes up the story of Stella where the
novel and movies left off and carries her on
to new adventures.

Stella is played by Anne Elstner, a
handsome brown-haired woman who has
been an actress practically all her life.
When she was twelve years old she ap-
peared in a Mena, Arkansas, theater in
her own song-and-dance creation, "The
Yama Yama Man." Later she was a lead-
ing light in all the dramatic activities in
school, and got her start in New York by
understudying Eva LeGallienne. She's
been doing radio work since 1923 — or, in
other words, about as long as there has
been any radio to work for.

She is married to a business man named
Jack Matthews, and they live on a farm in
New Jersey, so far from New York that it
takes Anne an hour and a half to get into
New York for broadcasts. She says she
doesn't care, though, because she loves the
country and hates the city.

Radio fans still remember Anne as the
heroine, "Cracker," of the serial, Moonshine
and Honeysuckle, which has been off the air
for about six years now but was one of the
earliest and most famous of continued dra-
mas. Anne was a natural choice for the
part, because she was born in Louisiana and
raised in other Southern states, so that she
possesses a delightful Southern drawl. The
voice she uses for the role of Stella is much
deeper and huskier than her own cultivated
tones.

Anne was on the stage in "Sun-Up" when
she got married. The whole company was
planning on going to London, but Anne and
her fiance didn't want to be separated by
3,000 miles of ocean, so they got married and
Anne retired from stage work. Radio offered
a good compromise and she has confined
her acting to it pretty steadily ever since.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 4: Danger is My Business, a new
weekly program, starts tonight on Mu-
tual at 10: 15, E.D.S.T.

June 19: Rudy Vallee's due back in New
York about now — so maybe tonight he'll
be broadcasting from there instead of
Hollywood. Which means he won't have
Barrymore.

9:15
12:15

10:00
2:15

U
7:00

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7:45

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10
10

10
10
10

11
11

9:3011

9:4511
9:45J11

10:00 12
10:00 12

THURSDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

10:15
10:15

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10:30

9:45
13:15
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2:30
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7:30
7:35
8:00
8:00
8:15
8:30
8:30
8:45

15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue

15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

45 CBS: Hymns of All Churches
45 NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

00 CBS: By Kathleen Norris
00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

15 CBS: Myrt and Marge
15 NBC-Blue: Vagabonds
15 NBC-Red Ellen Randolph

30JCBS: Stepmother

30 NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis

30INBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

45 CBS: Woman of Courage
45!NBC-BIue: Wife Saver
45jNBC-Red: The Road of Life

00 CBS: Mary Lee Taylor
00|NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

15 CBS: Martha Webster

15 NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

30 CBS: Big Sister

30 NBC-Red: Lone Journey

00
00

15
15

30
30

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful

00 MBS: We Are Always Young

15 CBS: Woman in White

15 MBS: Edith Adams' Future

15|NBC-BIue: Ted Malone

45
45
00
00
15
15
15
30
30
30
45

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way
CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World
CBS: Girl Interne
MBS: George Fisher
NBC-Red: Mystery Man
CBS: Fletcher Wiley
NBC-Blue: Midstream
NBC-Red: Valiant Lady
CBS: Kate Hopkins

45 NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Adventures in Science

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine

NBC- Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

CBS: Bess Johnson

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin
00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
00,NBC-Red: Home of the Brave
15 CBS: The Goldbergs
IS NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life
30 CBS: The O'Neills
30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines
30 NBC-B.ue: We, the Abbotts
45;CBS: Scattergood Baines

NBC-Blue: Gasoline Alley

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: News

CBS: Bob Edge
30'CBS: Paul Sullivan
30 NBC-Red: Rex Stout
45 CBS: The World Today
45'NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas
00 CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
00 NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
CBS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen
NBC-Red: European News
CBS: Vox Pop
NBC-Red: Xavier Cugat

NBC-Red: H. V. Hal ten born

CBS: Colgate Spotlight
OOiMBS: Wythe Williams
00 NBC-Blue: Pot o' Gold
00 NBC-Red: Fannie Brice

CBS: City Desk

NBC-Blue: The World's Best

NBC-Red: ALDRICH FAMILY

CBS: Elmer Davis \

CBS: MAJOR BOWES

MBS: Gabriel Heatter

NBC-Red: KRAFT MUSIC HALL

NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

NBC-Blue: America's Town Meeting

CBS: Glenn Miller

NBC-Red: Rudy Vallee

CBS: Professor Quiz

NBC-Blue: Ahead of the Headlines

NBC-Red: Listener's Playhouse

CBS: News of the World

9:15
12:15

12:45

11:45

10:00
2:15

U
7:00

FRIDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

7:45
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9:3011:30
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10:45)12:45

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6:5S
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0:00 7:00

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NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

N'BC-Red: Isabel Manning Hewson

CBS: Betty Crocker
NBC-Red: Edward Mac Hugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Vagabonds
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red: Lone Journey

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne
NBC-Red: Mystery Man

30 CBS: Fletcher Wiley

30 MBS: Philadelphia Orchestra

30 NBC-Blue: Midstream

30jNBC-Red: Valiant Lady

45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

45 NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride
NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Exploring Space

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine

NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

CBS: Bess Johnson

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin

NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

N'BC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

(lis The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

Mi( -Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Scattergood Baines

Mil -Blue: Gasoline Alley

NIK Red: Jack Armstrong

Edwin C. Hill

Bob Trout

Hedda Hopper

Paul Sullivan

The World Today

Blue: Lowell Thomas
NISI -Red: Paul Douglas
CBS: Amos 'n* Andy
N li( -Red: Fred Wiring's Gang
( Its Lanny Ross
NIK -Red: European News

Al Pi. Ill <■

The Lone Ranger

<••(): Rhyme and Rhythm

KATE SMITH

Blue: John Gunthor

' >| Cities Service Concert
N IK
NIK l<

< IIS Elmer Davis
( MS: Groat Moments from Great

Plays
Mils Gabriel Heattor

Blue: Bon Bernle

Red Waltz Time

( IIS

C us

CHS
i US
( IIS
NIK

( lis
\l IIS
NIK

BS
00 N IK
00 N IK
30

'.!>

ijij

Blue: Death Valloy Days

INFORMATION PLEASE

00 . IK
00 . IK

30 i II .
30 NIK
30 N IK

on i i:
00 M lis
00 . B(
10 I B9
i g i b

Campbell Playhouse
Blue Your Happy Birthday
Red Uin I.- w.ilnr's Dog House
Blue The Nlckol Man
Hollywood Promlero
Raymond Gram Swing
Red: Wings ol Destiny

Juan Arvlzu
Newt ol the World

Stars like Ethel Barrymore
are Lincoln Highway's guests.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN...

Lincoln Highway, on NBC-Red Satur-
day mornings at 11:00, E.D.S.T., rebroad-
cast at 9:00 Pacific Time, sponsored by
Shinola Shoe Polish.

Most sponsors used to shun a Saturday-
morning program, on the theory that peo-
ple were too busy doing other things
to listen to the radio. Then along came
the Shinola people and put Lincoln High-
way on — a regular night-time show, with
famous guest stars and good dramatic
stories — and gathered so many listeners
that now other sponsors are following
their lead. Lincoln Highway just cele-
brated its first anniversary and it's esti-
mated that more than four million people
tune it in every Saturday.

A different star is heard every week in
a half-hour play specially written to fit
his or her talents. Raymond Massey was
on one Saturday, and the authors had a
fine script for him, in which he was to
play Abraham Lincoln, following up his
immense success as the Great Emancipator
on the stage and in movies. Massey asked
for a different part — didn't want to play
Lincoln again for fear he'd be "typed."

Lanky Don Cope, the director, has grown
adept at handling temperaments, but he
still shudders when he remembers the
way Luise Rainer insisted on having her
pet dog in the studio with her during the
broadcast. Luckily, the dog didn't bark
once, but Don lost pounds being afraid he
would. Luise went through the whole
broadcast kneeling on a studio chair, read-
ing her part. For some reason or other,
that was the way she liked to stand at the
mike.

Lincoln Highway has a rehearsal at
8:00 on Saturday mornings, which makes it
tough on actors. As a rule, they aren't habit-
ual early risers. Once Ethel Waters' maid
forgot to wake her, so that the famous Negro
star arrived at the studio breathless, just in
time to go on the air without benefit of re-
hearsal.

You hear John Mclntire as the narrator
and master of ceremonies, and Jack
Arthur singing the Lincoln Highway
theme song at the beginning and end of
the program. Jack composed the tune and
wrote the words himself, taking exactly half
an hour to do the job.

Getting Hollywood stars to guest on the
program is a job in itself. Not that the movie
people aren't willing to broadcast, but the
show originates in New York, so the pro-
ducers have to plan on grabbing the screen
stars during their infrequent and brief visits
to Manhattan. Once the date for a guest ap-
pearance is set, writers get to work tailoring
a script to fit— and sometimes the scripts
have to be changed.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

J2 '

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SATURDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:00 CBS. News of Europe
8:00 NBC-Red News

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

8:30 < lis Hillbilly Champions
8:30 NBC-Blue: Dick Leibert

8:45
8:45

NBC-Blue: Josh Higgins
NBC-Red. Deep River Boys

9:00 CBS. Press News

9:00 NBC -Blue: Breakfast Club

9:00 NBC-Red News

9:15

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I 10:00
l 10:00

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NBC-Red: Happy Jack

CBS: Burl Ives
NBC-Red: Market Basket

CBS. Old Dirt Dobbcr
NBC-Red: Music for Everyone

CBS: The Life of Riley
NBC-Blue: Richard Kent
NBC-Red: Bright Idea Club

CBS: Gold if You Find It

NBC-Red: Happy Jack

NBC-Red: Lincoln Highway
CBS: Honest Abe

CBS Dorothy Kilgallen
NBC-Blue: Our Barn
NBC-Red: Weekend Whimsy

CBS: Country Journal

NBC-Red: Nat'l Fed. Women's Clubs

CBS: Stars Over Hollywood
NBC-Blue: Farm Bureau
NBC-Red: Call to Youth

CBS: Jobs for Defense

CBS:
MBS

Let's Pretend
: We Are Always Young

MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: No Politics
MBS: Government Girl
NBC-Red: Masters Orchestra

MBS: I'll Find My Way

NBC-Blue: Indiana Indigo

CBS: Of Men and Books
NBC-Red: Jenkins Orchestra

CBS: .Dorian String Quartet
NBC-Blue: Bobby Byrnes Orch.

NBC-Red: Guy Hedlund Players

CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

Matinee at Meadowbrook
Blue: Club Matinee
Red: Campus Capers

NBC-Red: A Boy, a Girl, and a Band

CBS: News of the Americas
NBC-Blue: Cleveland Calling
NBC-Red: The World Is Yours

CBS: Report to the Nation
NBC-Red: Thornhill Oreh.

NBC-Blue: Dance Music

CBS: Elmer Davis
NBC-Blue: Vass Family
NBC-Red: Religion in the News

CBS: The World Today
NBC-Blue: Edward Tomlinson
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: People's Platform
NBC-Blue: Message of Israel
NBC-Red: Defense for America

CBS: Wayne King

NBC-Blue: Little Ol' Hollywood

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

C BS:
NBC
NBC

Your Marriage Club

Blue: Kay Dee Triplets

Red: Knickerbocker Playhouse

NBC-Blue: Man and the World

CBS: Duffy's Tavern

MBS: Boake Carter

NBC -Blue: Bishop and the Gargoyle

NBC-Red: Truth or Consequences

CBS: YOUR HIT PARADE
MBS: Gabriel Heatter
NBC-Blue: Spin and Win
NBC -Red: National Barn Dance

MBS. Contact

NBC-Blue: NBC Summer Symphony

CBS: Saturday Night Serenade

M IIS; Chicago Concert
NBC-Red: Uncle Ezra

CBS: Public Affairs

c BS: Girl About Town

CBS: News of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

; L

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Slather Pond's Cold Cream all over your face. Pat it
in for all you're worth! Wipe off with Pond's Tissues.
Then "rinse" with more Cold Cream, to soften again, and
slick off every trace of dirt and old make-up. Happy note!
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SHE'S infatuated with life, and
infinitely lovely — this madcap
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JULY, 1941

Portia Faces Life

trying to take my money away from
me. But I won't let you! And I won't
let you have my husband either,
Portia Blake!"

"My God!" Walter whispered, and
Portia stared in a horror too deep for
words. For Arline was like a woman
demented. One small gloved hand
pounded on the desk top, the other
was pressed against her cheek so hard
that it left an ugly red spot when she
abruptly snatched it away.

She turned and clung to Walter,
burying her face against his shoulder,
shaken by silent gusts of hysterical
grief. Her words came muffled by the
cloth.

"I only want the money for clothes
. . . and for charity. I can't fight you.
I'm so lonely and unhappy. Please let
me have the money — let me get out of
here."

Without a word, Portia drew a
check from the drawer of her desk

and filled it out. She was horrified,
sickened to the depths of her being,
and she knew now what Walter had
meant when he said Arline made life
into a hell for both of them.

Walter took the check, affixed his
own signature below Portia's, pressed
it into Arline's hand. A look of un-
derstanding passed between him and
Portia before he led his wife from
the room.

It was not until some minutes after-
ward that Portia was able to isolate
a vague impression that persisted in
the turmoil of her thoughts. Arline's
first fury had been genuine. But
hadn't there been a flavor of cal-
culated play-acting in her subsequent
collapse?

HER suspicion remained as a nag-
ging background for the events of
the next few busy days. The Haw-
thorne trial was coming up; she had
to interview the boy and Joe Kearney,
his alibi witness. And there was Kirk
Roder, who had finally promised to
have a full accounting of his steward-
ship ready for her to see in a few
more days.

(Continued from page 35)

The trial of Duke Hawthorne,
least, was heartening. It went off a
smoothly, with Joe Kearney pro; ■
conclusively that the boy had beei,
with him, driving in the country to
get a breath of fresh air on a>Ji
summer night. In the end, the pro-
prietor of the fur store weakened in
his identification, and the jury brought
in a verdict of "not guilty" after only
an hour's deliberation.

The long day in court left Portia
curiously tired — not only in body,
which was to be expected, but in
spirit, which was not, for the verdict
should have exhilarated her. Try as
she might, she could not shake off a
feeling of disaster, vague but persis-
tent. Little things that were, logically,
unimportant assumed a ridiculous
significance. The fact that Arline had
wanted ten thousand dollars to buy
clothes — why should she need so
much? The odd discovery she had

HOLLYWOOD

PREMIERE
Louella Parsons previews
the new pictures on the
air Friday nights, 10:00
E.D.T., over CBS, sponsor-
ed by Lifebuoy. Left, re-
hearsing for her first pro-
gram, "The Flame of New
Orleans." Seated are Miss
Parsons, Marlene Dietrich,
Bruce Cabot; standing is
Benny Rubin. Below, Lou-
ella working on her news
column and radio show.

made, just before the trial, that Joe
Kearney had recently been hired as
Arline's private chauffeur — that, too,
troubled her for some reason she
could not define.

And she looked forward without
pleasure to her interview with Kirk
Roder. If, as she suspected, there were
irregularities in his accounts, he
would be unpleasant to deal with.

She felt dull and heavy the morning
after the trial when she received him
in her office. For one of the few times
in her life, faced with his twinkling
little black eyes, she was conscious of

her own j femininity, her precarious
position jfa a man's world.

"Understand you've been looking
ove^ the tenements, Mrs. Blake," he
'said with easy familiarity. "Nice little
property."

"Not very," Portia said shortly, lik-
ing the man less and less. "In fact, I've
been wondering why they aren't
nicer. According to Mr. Harrison's
books, a good deal of money has been
put into them. But they don't show
it."

"No?" He pursed his lips in affected
surprise. "Takes a lot to make a dent
in those old places, of course."

"I suppose it does. But I won't ask
you to explain it to me. Your state-
ment of how you've spent the money,
with the receipted bills, will be all
we'll need."

"And that's just what you'll get.
Mrs. Blake," he beamed. "My secre-
tary's fixing it up now. Matter of fact,
though, there's something else I really
wanted to talk to you about."

"Yes?" Portia said coldly. She was
convinced now that Roder had no ac-
counts worthy of the name, that he
was dishonest, and stalling for time.

"It's a little embarrassing," he said.
"Fact is, it's about that Hawthorne
case you tried yesterday. Now, I don't
want to throw a monkey wrench into
the works, but I happen to know that
some of the testimony used to spring
Hawthorne in that trial was plain
phoney."

He leaned back in his chair with a
satisfied little smile. There was utter
silence in the office.

"What testimony?" Portia asked at
last, although she knew. Her only
witness, except Duke Hawthorne him-
self, had been Joe Kearney. Obviously,
his must be the testimony Roder
meant.

"Now don't try to kid me," Roder
said chidingly. "You were the boy's
lawyer. If there was perjury in his
trial, you're too smart a little lady not
to know about it beforehand. Not that
I blame you, personally, understand.
A lawyer's business is to get his
clients out of jail. But courts and bar
associations are — fussy about things
like bought testimony."

Fury shook her. "I didn't buy any
testimony, and you know it!"

"I know the testimony was bought,"
he said smoothly, "and I can prove it.
But — " He leaned forward confiden-
tially. "But let's pull together, Mrs.
Blake. I want to be your friend."

"You mean you want me to approve
your crooked accounts on the tene-
ments!"

"I wouldn't call them crooked, if I
were you. But it'd be nice if you'd
approve them. Otherwise ... I might
have to do something that'd get you
disbarred so you couldn't approve
them."

"What good would that do you?
The court would simply appoint
another executor, and no honest ex-
ecutor in the world would approve
those accounts."

Kirk Roder only smiled.

The telephone at her elbow rang,
and she automatically lifted the in-
strument and said "Hello."

"Mrs. Blake?" The voice was ex-
cited, strained. "This is Joe Kearney.
Can I see you — quick, about some-
thing important?"

Portia's heart leaped in sudden hope.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Already she had determined to see
Kearney, and now here was the op-
portunity ready to her hand. She
kept her voice casual as she answered,
"Of course. I'll be free in ten min-
utes." Replacing the receiver, she said,
"I'll have to ask you to excuse me."

"Sure," Roder said amiably, stand-
ing up. "I don't mind giving you a
little time to think things over. Sup-
pose I drop in tomorrow morning to
see what you've decided?"

"That will be satisfactory," she told
him. She waited until the door had
closed behind him and then, slowly,
her head went down into her hands.
A sensation of overpowering weari-
ness weighted her whole body. What
a fool she had been! Because she
knew Joe Kearney and trusted him,
she had ignored the most elementary
precautions — she hadn't checked thor-
oughly into his evidence.

She discounted most of Roder's
threats. It would not be as simple as
he pretended to get her disbarred. No
matter what had happened in the
Hawthorne case — and she was still
foggy as to that — an airing of the
whole business in open court would
harm Roder as much as it would her-
self. Probably he only wanted to
frighten her into acquiescing in his
own dishonesty by approving his ac-
counts. She would never agree to do
that. Her integrity as a lawyer would
not allow it.

By the time Joe Kearney entered she
had recovered some of her self-
possession.

JOE'S red face was troubled, and he
J crumpled his chauffeur's cap in his
hands when he sat down. "I been
worried about somethin' for a couple
o' days, Mrs. Blake," he began, "an'
my wife says I better tell you all
about it — "

And so, gradually, the pattern be-
came clear to Portia.

It was Arline Manning who had
bought Joe's evidence. Her own in-
credible malice toward Portia had
made her a willing tool in Kirk Ro-
der's hands.

For the ten thousand dollars which
Arline had begged from Portia and
Walter, Joe had agreed to furnish
Duke Hawthorne with an alibi which
he would later revoke. Joe, neither
very honest nor very clever, had not
bothered to inquire into the reasons
back of all this. He was being paid
ten thousand dollars for doing some-
thing that would send him to jail for
a year or so, that was all.

"It was Mrs. Manning's an' Mr.
Roder's business, not mine," he ex-
plained. "But y'see, they didn't tell
me at first you was the lawyer for
Duke. An' I got t' thinkin', if I was
to take back my alibi, it'd look bad
for you. I didn't want that should
happen, because you got my boy out
from under a murder sentence once,
an' I don't want to do nothin' that'd
hurt you."

"It would have hurt me, all right,"
Portia said grimly. "You see, Roder
knew that if you retracted your testi-
mony I'd be in trouble for using a
perjured witness. I might even have
been disbarred. . . . Will you swear to
all this in court, Joe? Even though
it means you can't keep the money?"

"I sure will," he promised. "I don't
want none o' that money if it's goin'
to hurt you, Mrs. Blake."

"Thank you, Joe. And I'll see to it
that you aren't prosecuted for per-
jury."

Every nerve in her body was hum-

JULY, 1941

i'--\

Absence...

-fc!C^

*:--.ie

iJt

Dear Mary: — Your swell letter was here when I got home from
work tonight. Glad you're enjoying the beach so much. It must be
doing the kids a world of good to be out of this heat . .

-makes the Husband Wiser...

— This sister of yours knows a trick or two about washing

you could use. You know how I crab about the way our

laundress does my shirts. They never look clean. Well, since

I've been over at Anne's, you wouldn't think they were the

same shirts. Honest, they're so white they make me blink!

There's something about a clean shirt — I mean really

clean. I come home completely fagged out, shower, slide

into a crisp shirt, stow away some of Anne's gorgeous

grub — and darned if I don't feel like stepping out and

doing the town. (Relax, baby, I only said I feel like it.)

Just three weeks till my vacation starts
and I can join you. Take it easy and don't
worry about me. I'm doing fine — Love, Bob.

— Asked Anne about the shirts.
She just looked wise and said
'Fels-Naptha Soap'. Does that
l§^ mean anything to you?

about Body-Beauty is that many
girls who wouldn't for a minute go
without a perfect make-up pay no
more attention to glorifying their
bodies than a mere dunking in the
tub. Bodies need beautifying, too.
Now, if you've really set your heart
on capturing Tall, Dark and Hand-
some, begin your bewitching ritual
by showering your body from top to
toe with lovely Mavis Talcum. It
clothes you in a gossamer-like web
of flower -fresh fragrance. White,
Flesh and Boditan (Rachel) Shades.
75*5, 50*, 25*, 1W.

MAV

TM I >l«5K«Cll

ming with exultation. The law had
been mocked, testimony had been
cynically purchased — but chance had
given her the instrument of ven-
geance, and she would not misuse it!

Fifteen minutes later she was in
Arline's sitting room. Arline, doll-like
in a clinging white negligee, had just
finished breakfast.

"I came to tell you," Portia said
tersely, "that your little plan, to dis-
credit me has backfired — badly."

"I don't know what you mean,"
Arline said quickly.

"I mean that I've just been talking
to Joe Kearney. He's willing to swear
in court that you and Kirk Roder
bribed him to give false evidence in
the Hawthorne trial."

"That's not true!" .

"Oh yes, it is. It's also true that
you've hated me for months. You fell
in with Roder's filthy scheme — I'm
sure it was his, you couldn't have
thought of it — only because you hated
me. You didn't stop to ask why he
was so anxious to embarrass me, but
I'll tell you. He has been systemati-
cally robbing your father for heaven
knows how long, and he knew I'd
find out. But if you were the adminis-
tratrix of the estate he could go on
robbing you because you'd be too
stupid to catch him."

ARLINE sat immobile, one hand
*» clutching the arm of the sofa, the
other in midair as if to fend off
Portia's words. She seemed incapable
of speech.

"But now," Portia went on furi-
ously, "Joe Kearney is my witness, not
yours. You and Roder will be the ones
on trial for bribing testimony, not I!"

"And Walter," Arline whispered,
"will know. . . ."

Yes. Walter would know.

Portia felt her fury ebbing away,
its place taken by chill dismay.

Arline had gone straight to the heart
of their quarrel with those four
words, exposing it so Portia could no
longer blind herself to its meaning.
Arline had conspired with Roder be-
cause she was jealous of Portia.

"Walter will know," Arline repeated
dully. "And he'll hate me more than
he does now. Hate me — and love you."
She rose from the couch, slowly, her
eyes fixed on Portia in a wild, glitter-
ing stare. "And so you've won. You'll
take him away from me. You'll take
his body, just as you've already taken
everything else that makes him Wal-
ter Manning. I suppose it will be easy
enough for him to get a divorce from
me now, no matter how I fight it."

She laughed, rather horribly.

"But don't think you'll be happy
with him. Don't ever think that! You
don't love him that much — you don't
love him so that you're willing to lie,
cheat, steal for him. As I did! You
think you do, but you don't, because
you aren't built that way. I'll be there
between you, all the time, and you'll
remember you got him by ruining me,
and that will spoil everything!"

It was true, all true. Against all her
wishes, Portia knew it. One couldn't
find happiness at the expense of
others. Even Arline hadn't been able
to, so how could she?

Her fury was suddenly gone, leav-
ing her empty of all emotion, weary.

She sank down on a softly upholstered
chair. There was nothing she wanted
to do so much as to leave this house
and go some place where it was dark
and quiet — some place where she
could rest. But first she had a duty
to perform.

"Yes," she said, "you're right, Ar-
line. You're so right I can't under-
stand how you've failed to see it for
yourself."

"See what?" Arline demanded.

"That you can't command love, or
happiness either. You can't go after
them and seize them, simply because
they're things you want. You have to
earn them — and then, maybe, they'll
come to you so quietly and unexpect-
edly that they seem to have come of
their own accord. . . . That's really
what you've been saying to me. But
you haven't applied it to yourself."

"You're . . . trying to trick me."
Arline's voice was still hard, but be-
hind it there was now a tremor of
doubt — perhaps of hope.

"No. Sit down, Arline."

For more than an hour Portia
talked, wrestling with Arline's
twisted, unhappy soul, pleading,
arguing. When at last she stood up to
go, she knew that at least she had
made a beginning. Not all at once
would this girl be able to shake off
habits of selfishness and unbridled
will: not all at once would she learn
the peace that disciplined emotions
would bring her.

But one great thing had been ac-
complished. Hatred for Portia had
been scourged from her heart.

"Don't worry about the Joe Kearney
business," Portia said.

"You mean — you won't do anything
about it?"

"No, I don't mean that," Portia
shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'll have
to let it come to court, and you'll have
to stand trial for your part in it. But,"
she added hastily, seeing the terror in
Arline's face, "I'll ask the court to try
you and Roder separately. I'll defend
you. and show how you didn't know
what you were doing — how you were
completely under Roder's influence."

"I can't go through with it! You
mustn't — " Arline began.

Portia interposed quietly, "Wait.
You can't make Walter love you by
dodging things, Arline. That's what
I've been trying to tell you. You must
show him that you're brave — that you
can face trouble." She patted the
girl's shoulder. "Don't worry. It won't
really be so bad."

OUTSIDE, Portia took deep breaths
of the warm summer air. Down-
town, the bell in the court house
struck the slow notes of noon. She
felt clean, strong, happier than she
had felt for days, as if she had awak-
ened after a long, delirious illness. So
much of what she had said to Arline
had been meant for herself as well.

"You can't find happiness by hurt-
ing other people. No matter how
much you think they deserve to be
hurt. You can only be happy in your-
self— by taking, gratefully, what God
has set aside as your share, and mak-
ing the best of it."

She would have to see Walter soon,
talk to him about Arline. She did not
dread the meeting now.

V. V I V A U D O U , INC

Another in Our Series of Complete Radio Novels
Don't Miss the Thrilling

ROMANCE OF HELEN TRENT in the AUGUST RADIO MIRROR

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Are You Really In Love?

(Continued from page 17)

7. Do you have the impulse to tell
him confidentially:

(a) About some silly escapade of
yours at school?-

(b) About your First Love?-

8. When you're out on a date, and
kissing has little part in it, do you
find his talk exhilarating?

9. If you see him talking to another
girl, does cold fear grip you?

10. Suppose you've never liked long
hikes and he does. Would you:

(a) Start going on them? -

(b) Tell him good-humoredly
to go ahead while you enjoy your-
self doing something else?

11. If he hasn't 'phoned for two
days, do you get grumpy and mis-
erable?

12. Does he make you feel:

(a) exciting?

(b) a little superior?

13. Have you thought about chang-
ing this or that habit of his after your
marriage?

14. When you run into him on a
cold, gray morning and he's wearing
old clothes and perhaps a spot of dirt
on his chin, do you:

(a) think he's as wonderful as
he was last night at the party — all
slicked up in his tux?

(b) wonder why men look so
funny in the A. M.?

15. Do you usually slip off to sleep
at night as soon as you hit the pil-
low? -

16. In buying a hat these days, does
it take you:

(a) A longer time than pre-
viously?

(b) A shorter time?

17. In the last home you visited, did
you observe the arrangement of the
furniture?

18. If he says he likes the Latin
Type (and you're not it), would you:

(a) start doing a remodeling
job on yourself along those "south
of the border" lines?

(b) stay just as you are without
so much as trying a sultry
glance?

19. Are your day-dreams imprac-
tical?

20. If a woman you dislike is wear-
ing a becoming hat, would you tell
her so?

21. After you've been on an all-
day outing with him, when you come
home do you:

(a) feel an urge to call your
best girl friend to fell her about
it?

(b) make arrangements to
spend the evening, or some eve-
ning soon, with your crowd?

22. Do you find yourself fondling
torn movie stubs, or perhaps a dried
gardenia — anything that reminds you
of him?

23. When you squabble, even if it
wasn't your fault, are you "closed for
repairs" — completely sunk? "

24. If that handsome bandleader,
or some other Top Man, singled you
out for attention, would you:

(a) laugh it off?

(b) play up, just to make him
(your boy friend) jealous?

25. Do you wake up in the morning
feeling perfectly normal?

Now see how your answers com-
pare with those given on page 76.

JULY, 1941

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I Sing of Romance, But —

(Continued from page 11)

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me aside for a private little talk. She
hated to see me go. It was only neces-
sity that forced her to give her per-
mission. And she said:

"Helen, you're terribly young. I
suppose many people would say I'm
wrong to let you leave home and start
traveling around the country with
nine young men. Sometimes you'll be
lonely and other times you'll have to
cope with difficult situations. But I
know you're a good girl, and a sensible
one. You'll go on living as honestly
and decently as you always have. And
remember — if that's the way you want
to live, everyone you meet will real-
ize it, and will help you live that
way."

I didn't understand, then, how right
she was. But it didn't take me long
to learn.

It wouldn't be quite correct to say
that Jimmy Richards and the other
boys in the band were like brothers
to me. In some ways, they were. Like
brothers, they disciplined me when I
needed it. I remember once, after
I'd been with them a little while, I got
temperamental. We were rehearsing
and I hit a sour note. I was just kid
enough to look for an alibi. I said
that the band was playing wrong, so
how could I sing right?

I never did that little trick again.
The boys all hooted at me, and for
days afterwards they wouldn't let me
forget. They'd ask, very seriously, if
the music was satisfactory, or they'd
bow and call me Miss Galli-Curci, or
they'd think up dozens of other ways
of showing me what a pompous little
bad sport I'd been.

A few weeks of being with Jimmy
Richards taught me things that I've
never forgotten — things that are every
bit as true in Jimmy Dorsey's band,
even though it's much bigger and
more famous.

There was the time I first discov-
ered that if I wanted to be a good
member of the band I must forget
that I was a girl.

I T hadn't occurred to me that it was
' wrong to see more of Jack, who
played the saxophone, than of the
other boys. He was a handsome, pink-
cheeked fellow with a shy way of
talking that I liked. Whenever we
could, we paired off, naturally and
very innocently. I wasn't in love with
him, and I don't think he was in love
with me. But we were a boy and a
girl, and we liked each other, and we
used to explore new towns together
before the night's work, ending up
with dinner, away from the rest of the
band, in some restaurant or tea room.

Then, one night in the bus, one of
the other boys made a remark in my
hearing. There wasn't anything par-
ticularly wrong with what he said.
But I saw Jack flush and frown.

"Pipe down," he said. "That's no
way to talk in front of Helen."

First the other musician was sur-
prised, and then he was angry. All
he said was, "Trying to be Sir Gala-
had, Jack?" But there was a strained
atmosphere between him and Jack for
the rest of that night's bus-ride. And

I could tell that the rest of the band
sided with the boy who'd made the
remark, against Jack.

I realized then that for the good of
the band I mustn't let Jack or any-
one else single me out for his personal
property — no matter how innocently.

A dance band is a world in itself. A
dozen or so reasonably temperamental
people spend most of their waking
hours and some of their sleeping ones
together. Six hours playing in one
town — then into a bus or train to hit
for the next. And don't be cross if
you get your night's rest huddled up
between the bass violinist and his bass
viol.

For all the other human companion-
ship you get, you might as well be on
a desert island with your fellow-musi-
cians.

That sort of thing isn't easy on the
nerves, and emotional complications
are just so much excess baggage.

When Jack rose gallantly to my de-
fense, it had thrown the delicate
machinery of the organization out of
gear. There were hard feelings be-
tween him and all the rest of the band
— just because of me. And that was
bad, because it meant I wasn't doing
my job right.

AFTER that night, I stopped going
around with Jack. I made a rule
for myself that I've never broken in
the five years since. First in Jimmy
Richards' band, then in Larry Funk's,
and for the last two years with Jimmy
Dorsey, I've never once dated a musi-
cian from my own band socially.
Occasionally I've been one of an after-
the-show party with three or four of
the boys, but that's very different
from going out with one of them alone.
There's nothing romantic about it. I'm
just one of the gang, and nobody ever
thinks of me as anything else. That's
the way I want it.

I've known other girls who didn't
make that rule. You'd recognize their
names if I told you. One, a beautiful
person with a lovely voice, never
seemed to get the idea that singing
with a band was a job to be done. She
didn't mean any harm, but it was
second nature with her to flirt with
men. In two months she had the
boys in the band hating each other.
Rehearsals were ragged and sloppy,
because there was no team-work in
the outfit, there were several fist-
fights, and the leader finally lost pa-
tience and fired the girl, although she
was very popular with the customers.
She got a job with a less important
band, and finally dropped out of sight.
I don't know where she is now.

Another girl wasn't a flirt, but she
made a great point of being a lady.
She expected the boys to carry her
luggage as well as their own, she
wanted the best seat in the bus, the
best dressing room, the best every-
thing. If somebody swore or in any
other way forgot his company man-
ners, instead of being sensible and
pretending she hadn't heard, she'd
look shocked or reproving. She didn't
lose her job, but she isn't very popular
in the band business either.

"Girl About Town" is Radio Mirror's Song Hit of the Month for August.
It's a grand new tune composed by Joan Edwards, CBS' Girl About Town

City-

-State.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Maybe you've heard the musicians'
saying, "Girl singers are poison." I
don't think that's as true today as it
might have been once, because most
girls have learned the rules, which are
simply to be natural, friendly, hard-
working and self-respecting.

I found out I could get along fine if
I just made it plain that I didn't con-
sider myself entitled to any more
consideration than any of the boys,
and that I didn't expect any of them
to fall in love with me, either. Maybe
sometimes I've swung to the other ex-
treme and been a little tomboyish—
but that's far and away better than
being too feminine.

A great deal has been said about
the difficulty a girl has in keeping men
in the audience from giving her un-
welcome attentions. I've never had
much trouble. I must have a particu-
larly icy stare, or something.

One night at a hotel where we were
playing a long engagement, a note was
handed up to me. It said something
about having supper after the band
finished playing, and described the
writer so I could pick him out. I
didn't answer it, and pretty soon an-
other note came along. My next
song was a comedy number, with the
words "You cad!" in it, and when I
was singing I saw my correspondent
hanging around near the bandstand.
So I looked straight at him and gave
"You cad!" all the emphasis I could.
I didn't hear from him again.

SOMETIMES, when I have time to
think about it, it occurs to me that
being a singer for a dance band is a
very strange profession. A success-
ful singer must be good to look at as
well as to listen to, and so her sex is
very much a part of her stock in trade.
I spend hours caring for my skin, my
hair, my figure, and more hours select-
ing becoming clothes. It's my job to
look as alluring as I can.

Yet all this is only for display. An-
other part of my job, equally impor-
tant, is to minimize my femininity
when I'm away from the bandstand.
I must be one of the gang. I must
be tough enough to stand the physical
strain of working long hours, and still
look as if I'm so fragile a hard day's
work would finish me off.

As for a home or a fixed routine of
life, a girl singer has to get used to
not having either. When we're play-
ing a hotel date in New York, Chicago,
or some other big city, I live in the
hotel where we're working. Usually
we play for dancing from six or six-
thirty until one o'clock in the morn-
ing, with some time off between
dinner and supper. But in addition
there are recording dates, rehearsals
and broadcasts of Your Happy Birth-
day, movie shorts and engagements
in theaters. It all takes up your time.

And, though I sing of romance, I've
never really fallen in love! At least —
I don't think I have, although there's
a boy I'm very fond of. His name is
Jimmy Blumenstock, and maybe
you've read about him in the news-
papers, because he's an All-American
football player from Fordham Univer-
sity. We see each other Friday nights,
week-ends, whenever he can get away
from school and come down to the
Pennsylvania Hotel where the band is
playing. I'm wearing his gold foot-
ball, and maybe some day we'll talk
about getting married.

There, as well as I can tell you
about it, is the way a girl singer with
a dance band lives. I hope someday
you can tell me about you.

JULY, 1941

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Forgive Me Dearest

(Continued from, page 8)

"You know," she said with a brittle
laugh, at one point, "I hated you for
awhile." I was astounded. "It's true,"
she said. "Every time I thought of
you and George Burrey, I could have
killed you with pleasure."

"Is she talking about the Dr. George
Burrey whose book everyone is read-
ing?" Les asked me.

OF course," Kathy answered for
me. "You'd never think it to look
at her, Les, but little Linda bagged
him beautifully — grabbed him right
out from under our noses."

She made it sound awful. And I
couldn't stop her. She went all the
way back to the time, George, when
you first attracted the attention of
every girl on the campus. Remember
how stupid we all were, conniving to
meet you and making bets as to who
could rope you into a date first? You
were very intriguing, you know, dar-
ling. So stand-offish and handsome
and serious.

I don't have to go over all that for
you. You know the tricks I used to
get you to notice me. But you were
wise. You knew, long before I did,
when it stopped being a gam"e and
became the most serious and impor-
tant thing in my life.

But Kathy didn't tell it that way.
Her version of it — amusing and gayly
sophisticated — was that I simply
trapped you into marrying me, not
because I loved you, but to show the
other girls I could do it. I couldn't
understand it. I was sure Kathy
wasn't jealous because of you. She
had barely known you. And then, it
occurred to me that she was doing all
this for Les's benefit.

Then Les invited me to see him
broadcast at three o'clock.. And, after
that, instead of going home as I should
have, I trailed along with them to
Les's penthouse on the East River,
where there was a party going on.

I was the only one there who didn't
know everyone else, so Les took me
in charge. Guiding me from person
to person, he got a chance to whisper,
"You know, Kathy needs a little
chastising."

"Oh, I don't mind Kathy," I said.
And I meant it. There were too many
interesting people and too many ex-
citing things going on. I was intro-
duced to writers and actors and a
painter and a sculptor — both of whom
asked me to pose for them — and movie
directors and radio producers, until I
was dizzy. And they were all mar-
velous to me. The men's eyes were
flattering and the women all seemed
curious and, like Kathy, a little afraid
of me. I had a fine time being the
center of attraction. I felt interesting
and clever and lovely and it was a
good feeling.

And then it was seven o'clock and
everyone began talking about dinner
and I was surprised that it was so
late. Les came up to me and said,
"Why don't you phone your husband
and ask him to join us?" Kathy was
there with him, looking murder at
me and possessively and pointedly
commanding Les to take her home.

I found myself irritated with Kathy.
I didn't think you'd want to go out,
but I called you, simply to annoy
Kathy. If only you'd been at home!
But you weren't. The maid gave me
your message — the same old one. "Dr.

Burrey called to say he had to go out
to the hospital. He won't be home
until late."

While I was calling you, the others
had decided to drive out to the coun-
try to eat. And when they heard that
I'd be alone for the evening, they
insisted I go along with them. I went
in Les's car and after we'd left Kathy
at her house, I sat up in the front
seat with him.

It was one of those hazy, soft eve-
nings and we drove with the top
down. Les switched on the radio and
music came over us and sort of shut
us into a separate, special place of our
own. I don't know how to explain
it to you, but the whole evening was
like that, remote, like a dream.

Les and I left before the others,
because Les had an early radio re-
hearsal the next day. As we drove
back to the city he told me about
himself. And that all sounded very
unreal, too. It was hard to imagine
gay, carefree Les playing gangsters
and villains and blustering heroes in
rapid succession. He does, you know.
He's one of the most versatile and
sought-after actors in radio.

It was almost one when we got
home, and Les came upstairs with me.
He wanted to apologize to you for
keeping me out so late. But you
weren't home.

"Too bad," he said. "I'd like to meet
your husband. Some other time, per-
haps." He took my hand. "You know,
you're the sweetest person I've ever
met," he said very quietly. Then, very
naturally, as though there were noth-
ing else that could happen, he kissed
me, a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"I've had a wonderful day," I said.
And he was gone.

I could hardly wait for you to come
home so I could tell you about the
surprising, exciting things I'd been
doing. That marvelous, buoyant sense
of importance — I thought I could re-
capture it, hug it close, make it part
of me in the telling.

THEN you came home. And you were
too tired even to be mildly sur-
prised that I had met Kathy. You
drank your glass of milk and tried
to listen, but in the middle of my
prattling I looked up at you and you
were beginning to go to sleep.

Suddenly, I felt very lonely. Not
just because you were asleep. No, it
was more because I saw — or seemed
to see — how much of your life you
lived in a world in which I had no
place. I hated your work. It took so
much of your time and energy and
left so little of you for me. I felt
miserable and neglected.

Oh, I was very sorry for myself. I
even went so far as to be indignant
because I thought you were taking
me for granted, like shoes you know
you'll always find where you left
them. And I thought of Les and the
other people I'd met and remembered
that they were busy, important peo-
ple, too, and yet, they had found time
to be interested in me. And then I
was angry with you for falling asleep,
instead of listening to me.

By morning, I had forgotten all this
and that would have been the end of
it, if it hadn't been for Kathy. Kathy
called me a couple of days later.

"Really, Linda," she said with forced
gayety, "I don't know what kind of

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

a spell you cast — you must tell me
sometime — but several of the people
you met the other day want to see
you again. Will you come for cock-
tails, this afternoon, dear?"

I was thrilled and flattered. How
could I help it? I went to that party
and there I was invited to others. I
told you about them, remember? You
seemed pleased that I was having fun.

Then, one day, Les called me.
"You're certainly a busy young
woman," he said. "I've called you at
least a dozen times."

I laughed, not quite believing him.
"You must be pretty busy yourself,"
I said. "I've been to parties and par-
ties with Kathy and your friends and
you never turned up."

"So that's it," Les said. "Kathy's
playing games again."

I didn't understand.

"Never mind," Les said. Then his
tone changed. "Look, I really did
have a reason for calling you this
morning. We're starting a new pro-
gram and we need some outsider's
advice. Would you come to a rehear-
sal this afternoon and tell us what
you think?"

All morning, I kept thinking about
what he'd said about Kathy. And
after the rehearsal was over and I'd
tried to make a few suggestions, I
asked him what he had meant.

"You mustn't bother your head
about it, Linda," Les said. "Kathy's
jealous and she wants to keep her
eye on you, I guess."

"But why?" I asked.

Les seemed embarrassed. "Well — I
— I'm afraid Kathy thinks she's in
love with me and she's afraid you'll
cut her out."

"How silly!" I laughed. "Why, I'm
married."

"So is Kathy," Les said.

Now, I was embarrassed. "Les," I
said, "maybe I'd better not see you
any more, then. I don't want to hurt
Kathy — not if she's in love with you."

"I said she thinks she is," Les said.
"Besides, I'm not in love with her.
She knows that. I sometimes think
that's the only reason she's interested
in me, really." He was very irritated.
"I'm sick to death of the whole thing.
I'd like a drive in the sun — will you
come with me, please?"

LJE seemed so distressed and har-
•" assed, I felt sorry for him.

The warm sun and the steady rum-
ble of the motor seemed to soothe
him. It seemed to comfort him, too,
that I was there.

"There's something about you,
Linda," he said, when he left me at
the door. "I don't know — I — " and he
looked puzzled. "Thank you."

Often, after that, Les would call
me and ask me to go for a drive or
meet him somewhere for cocktails.
And I went, because I couldn't see
any harm in it. We laughed and
danced and it was all very superficial.
I should have seen what was happen-
ing to him, but I didn't. I understand
now that I didn't see it because I
didn't want to. I didn't want him to
fall in love with me, believe that,
George, please. I was very careful.
I never did anything to win him. to
make him want me.

If only I had told you about it then,
how I felt, how Les behaved, you
might have warned me. But I could
not see the point of making an issue
of it. It didn't mean anything to me.
No, that's not entirely honest. It did
mean something. Les seemed to need
me and that made me feel alive and

JULY, 1941

3 out of 5 prefer the flavor of
Beech-Nut Gum

567 out of 919 College Students prefer the delicious flavor
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Students were given two differ-
ent brands (Beech -Nut and one
other, both unidentified) and were
asked to report which stick they

The yellow package
with the red oval . . .

preferred. 3 out of 5 students
said they preferred the flavor of
Beech-Nut to that of the other
brands.

Enjoy this popular, long-lasting
peppermint flavor yourself. Get
some Beech-Nut Gum in the
yellow package.

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necessary. It seemed to give some
useful reason for my life. And I did
look forward to seeing him, again
and again. Selfishly, I even thought
of the two of you as belonging to me,
making my life full and complete.
You, the husband and lover; Les,
the gay, bright companion. And I
wanted it that way.

Of course, it couldn't go on like
that. And Les himself forced me to
face it. I went out with him on what
I thought was just another short drive
into the country. But Les drove on
and on, until we came to the summit
of a high hill and the land was
stretched out for miles before us
and we seemed to be the only people
in the world.

Les parked the car and turned to
me. "What are we going to do, you
and I?" he asked very quietly.

It was so plain what he meant that
I couldn't pretend not to understand.

I CAN'T go on like this, Linda," Les
■ went on. "I love you. Well?" Then,
before I could speak, he hurried on.
"No. Wait. It isn't as simple as that.
I'm not trying to talk you into an
affair, Linda. No — if I'd wanted that
— oh, what's the use? I've got to be
honest with you. When I met you,
you were just another attractive
woman to me. I — it's a little hard to
say to you — but — well, women were
always easy — women like Kathy, rest-
less women, who want something and
don't know what it is. It's very easy
for them to think you're what they
want. And then, when you're tired
of it, it's pretty easy to disillusion
them. It was going to be that way
with you, too. I had it all figured out.
Lonely woman, busy husband, lots of
time on her hands — and affection —

"But it didn't work. Every time we
had a date, I'd say to myself, "This
is wasting time— got to get started — ■
start it today." And then, I'd see you
and you'd be so sweet and real and
I'd forget all my plans and relax and
just feel new and good, being with
you. It's crazy, but many times I've
wanted to grab you and kiss the
breath out of your lips — and I
couldn't — because, well that would
have been too much like what's al-
ways happened between me and the
women I've known. I want you terri-
bly, Linda, desperately. But I want
you for always."

I was crying. I couldn't help it. I
was so ashamed. I saw now how I
had trapped Les much more surely
than all the feminine tricks in the
world could have done. There he was,
asking me to choose between you,
my husband, and him. And I knew
I would have to hurt him. I knew
there was only one answer. You.

"Linda, don't cry. Don't look like
that," Les pleaded. "Tell me you love
me. Say it! Say it!"

"No, no! I can't! I can't!" I cried.

His hands were hard on my shoul-
ders and his intense, dark eyes were
searching mine. He seemed puzzled
and then his face cleared.

"I won't make you say it," he said
with a smile. "You don't have to.
I know. I know what it is. You think
you owe him something. You think
yon have to be loyal to him. It's all
right. I love you all the more for
that."

"No, Les," I protested. "You're
wrong. I do love George."

"What kind of love is that — when
you never see each other? What is
there to love about a man who for-
gets you're alive nine-tenths of the

time? Think, Linda. Think of what
we have together, you and I."

I was wretched. "Take me home,
please," I said. "We've got to stop all
this. We mustn't see each other any
more."

Les laughed. "There's no mustn't
about it, darling."

There was a sort of elation about
him as we drove home. And I was
desperate. I knew he really believed
all the things he had said about us
and I didn't know what to say or do.

Saying goodbye downstairs, Les
held my hand tight. "Don't worry,
darling," he said. "You won't have
to do anything to hurt George. Leave
it all to me. I'll take care of it." And
before I could protest again, he had
jumped into his car and driven off.

I was afraid. I couldn't imagine
what Les would do, but I had a feeling
that I must forestall him. I wanted
terribly for you to come home early
tonight. I longed to throw myself into
your arms and sob out the whole, silly
story on your shoulder. But you
didn't come. I watched the clock and
paced up and down, planning what I
would say, how I would convince you
of the innocence of the whole thing.
But you didn't come home, darling.
I waited and waited until I couldn't
stand it any longer. Then I went out
to a movie, hoping that would dull
my fear, numb my brain.

You didn't hear me come in. You'll
never know how dead my heart went
inside me, when I heard Les's voice
in the living room. I had to clutch
the doorpost to stay on my feet. I
couldn't move for a few minutes. All
I could do was listen.

I ES was talking and his voice was
*- cutting. "I'm not inclined to put
much faith in your great love for Lin-
da. You say you love her, yet you don't
care where she goes or what she does.
A husband who loved his wife would
be aware of any danger to that love.
But were you? No. You let her do
as she pleased. Maybe you even knew
about me, but you let her go on see-
ing me."

And then your voice, a little sad,
bewildered. "I wanted Linda to have
a good time. I — I trust her. Why
shouldn't I?"

"Of course, you trust her," Les said.
"You know she's loyal and honest.
And you're taking advantage of her
loyalty. But loyalty isn't enough. It
takes love, too, and companionship
and understanding. It takes two peo-
ple, needing each other and giving
and sharing together. And you and
Linda haven't got that. But we have,
Linda and I. Set her free ! She loves
me, I tell you. She needs me. You
have no right to stand in her way,
just to satisfy your selfish vanity.
You have no right to tie her down to
an illusion, to a dead thing. Maybe
you did love each other when you
were married. But you don't now.
You couldn't and treat her this way.
And what does Linda get out of all
this? Nothing. A futile clinging to
memories, a sense of duty that makes
her lie, even to herself, about her love
for me. Because she does love me,
only she's too loyal to admit it."

I had to stop him. Somehow I found
the strength to walk the length of the
hall and into the room. You were
surprised, both of you, and I was glad.
It gave me time to gather my wits.

Still, it was hard to say what I did.
I was trembling with fear. And when
I turned to you and saw the look on
your face, I could hardly go on. But

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

m: m

Mrs. William Powell's
Marriage Problems

The William Powells are celebrating the
second year of their marriage and for the
first time young Diana tells the public of the
problems that confronted her and her fa-
mous "The Thin Man" Bill. Read "Second
Year" appearing in July Photoplay-Movie
Mirror out now.

HENRY FONDA'S SISTERS TELL ABOUT
HANK — Nobody knows a man like his sister
and here are two sisters bringing to light
surprising things in Henry Fonda's life that
will make you understand him better. Read
"Out of Henry Fonda's Attic" complete in
the July Photoplay-Movie Mirror.

GIRLS GET YOUR STAR DUST! That's tne
stuff that makes the stars scintillate with a
glamour that's envied by everyone who
views them on the screen. Every girl can
have it but few know the secret. Your fa-
vorite men stars have given Photoplay-
Movie Mirror for July a consensus of their
opinions of what they like best in a girl.
Read "You Can Star Wherever You Are"
and start that new personality drive.

MAKE HIM KEEP ON SAYING "I LOVE
YOU!" Now it's Loretta Young's turn to tell
the plan she has for making romance last
after marriage. Read "Loretta Really
Talks" — a splendid interview in the July
Photoplay-Movie Mirror.

SHOULD ANNABELLA WORK IN PIC-
TURES? "The Tyrone Powers Fight It Out"
in Photoplay-Movie Mirror for July. Be
sure to read this intimate discussion of love,
marriage and careers.

HOW OLD ARE THE STARS? "Fearless"
scores again in Photoplay-Movie Mirror for
July. He tells the real age of your favorite
stars.

FULL COLOR PORTRAITS. Every issue of
Photoplay-Movie Mirror contains gorgeous
full page color portraits of a number of
popular stars. In the July issue you will find
Irene Dunne, Ray Milland, Tyrone Power.
A valuable addition to your collection that
will thrill you.

ALL OF THE ABOVE— AND A LOT MORE.

The features mentioned above are only a
small fraction of the wealth of Hollywood
material, stories, articles, departments and
scores of intriguing pictures in the July issue.

Photoplay - Movie Mirror

Two Magazines For The Price of One.

JULY, 1941

I did. I said, "George, believe me,
you've got to believe me, darling. I
heard what he's been saying. It's not
true. I never loved him, never. I love
you. I always have. I don't want him.
I never did. I never want to see him
again."

I don't know what I would have
done, if you hadn't put your arms
around me then. And it was like find-
ing salvation to hear your deep, calm
voice saying to Les, "You heard what
she said. I think, perhaps, you'd bet-
ter leave now."

So he left and we were alone. What
happened between us then you know
— and I know — but I've got to put it
down too. I got to get it clear.

You said, holding me gently, as
though I were a hurt child, "I'm sorry,
Linda, darling. I didn't realize — I
didn't see how much I was neglecting
you. It's all my fault."

And I said "No. No, George. I was
stupid. But I didn't think he'd come
to you. He had no right — "

And you being generous. "He loves
you, Linda." Then, you holding me
at arms' length and looking deep into
my eyes and saying, "I love you, too,
Linda. Very much, enough to want
you to be happy. If you do love
him — "

"Please, darling, no!" I had to make
you understand. "How can I say it?
No. It wasn't love, not for a minute.
I was fond of him. He was fun. He
helped me pass the hours pleasantly.
And I felt I was giving him something
in return. But it wasn't love."

It was wonderful to see the doubt
leave your eyes and to hear the relief
in your voice, as you said, "I didn't
know. I waited for you to tell me."
Even now, I can feel the desperate
searching need in you as you drew
me close and kissed me. "Oh, Linda,"
you whispered and the need was cry-
ing in your voice, "forgive me. I've
been blind and selfish. I've hurt you
and almost let you slip away from
me. And if you had gone I don't
know what I would have done. Dar-
ling, forgive me, forgive me."

D UT there's nothing to forgive, dear.
u I see that now. It wasn't your fault.
It was equally mine. For, even if you
did seem to lose sight of me and my
place in your life, a great part of the
blame for that lies with me. Yes, I
was lonely for you. I missed you. But,
instead of trying to reach you, instead
of trying to keep your interest and
love alive, I went elsewhere, I went
looking for a substitute.

It's getting light outside now, and I
find a sort of gladness, lightness
within myself. It's not only because I
think I have answered all those ques-
tions which you were too generous
to ask me, questions about Les, how I
met him and actually what happened
between us. No. It's more because
everything has come very clear to me
in the writing.

I'm glad all this has happened to
us. We've learned something from it,
something we needed desperately to
learn. Yet, it's so simple, it almost
seems silly to say it. Like everything
else in the world, love — no matter
how strong and real— can't be taken
for granted. It has to be kept alive,
nurtured, helped to grow. It takes
work and tenderness and thoughtful-
ness. It takes love to keep love alive.

Sometimes you learn this one way,
sometimes another, but the important
thing is that you must learn it before
it's too late. And we came so close,
darling, to learning too late.

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City-

SUMMER-TAN

By DR. GRACE GREGORY

FASHION is a funny thing. A gen-
eration ago, girls wore big, floppy
hats and stifling veils and even
bathing sunbonnets to protect their
roseleaf complexions. Now everyone
is so aware of the charm of suntan
that girls often go to the opposite ex-
treme and need to be warned of the
dangers of sunburn.

Lovely Lucy Monroe has ideas
about that. She begins her tanning
with a sunlamp which she uses all
winter. When bathing suit days come,
she is all ready for them. But even
at that, she never omits the use of a
good oil, knowing that even a health-
ily tanned skin can suffer and be
coarsened by those penetrating rays
fit thp fo g 3 c h g s

Miss Monroe, whose superb voice
comes to us over WEAF every Sun-
day, at 9 p.m. E.D.T., on the Manhattan
Merry-Go-Round, is a typical Ameri-
can girl of a distinguished family
which gave the country many pio-
neers, and President James Monroe.
She is tall and lithe, graceful and
natural. Her beauty is heart-warm-
ing, all the more so because she seems
quite unconscious of it. She is a star
of opera, concert, and radio, a mu-
sician to her finger tips. In 1937 she
was selected as the official soloist of
the American Legion. In Washington,
on Armistice Day she was the soloist
at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Those who have heard her thrilling
bell-like voice as she sings the Na-
tional Anthem think of her always as
"The Star Spangled Soprano."

There are three kinds of help that
you can give to your skin against sun-

RADIO MIRROR

HOMMfMY

burn. First, take it easy. Miss Mon-
roe's idea of a sun lamp all winter is
excellent, especially now that lamps
are so inexpensive and compact. Be-
gin your outdoor sun baths with about
twenty minutes the first few days, ex-
posing as much of your body as pos-
sible to the rays after you have first
used a good sun oil. Work up gradu-
ally, and never, never omit the sun oil.

Next, consider your face. In fact,
consider all of you that shows when
you wear the ethereally dainty eve-
ning gowns which are high fashion
for this summer. Just how much tan
do you really want? How much is
becoming to your type — quite dark,
or just a hint of cafe au lait?

Nowadays you really can regulate
the tanning of your complexion to any
shade you prefer. There are lotions,
creams, and liquid creams which actu-
ally screen out a part of the sun's
rays. They are delicately scented and
non-greasy. You can use them freely
on neck and arms and as a powder
base. By varying the amount and fre-
quency of the application you regu-
late the- shade of tan, or prevent it
altogether if you desire.

Of course these sunburn preventives
shut out the burning rays, so that you
need never fear painful sunburn, not
even on beach or boat where the
glare is most trying, reflected from
water. By all means keep a plentiful
supply in your beach bag.

Another item that belongs in the
beach bag, always at hand, is one of
the special healing creams or un-
guents. They are marvelously sooth-

Lovely Lucy Monroe knows the
charm of beautiful sun-tanning,
but she also knows its clanger.

ing, not only when you have miscalcu-
lated your tanning and got some real
sunburn, but also for the many little
scratches and burns and chafings that
seem to go along with vacations.
There is a lovely white healing cream
that makes a fine powder base. The
instant it touches you, you can feel
its cooling, soothing effect. The time
to treat any of these minor irritations
is right away, not after you have gone
home with your day marred by dis-
comfort.

Many smart women keep two com-
plete sets of cosmetics, one for winter
and one for summer — powder base,
powder, rouge, lipstick and all. You
can not look right with a delicate
pink powder over your tan. And the
entire cosmetic kit must be an en-
semble, always.

Some women, particularly delicate
blondes who never tan satisfactorily,
get a tanned effect by using special
cosmetics. They give their faces the
maximum protection by using the
screening lotions, wearing big hats,
and keeping out of the sun during the
worst hours for burn (from eleven
to three). Then by a skillful use of
well-chosen cosmetics they manage
as becoming a tan as anyone else, and
sometimes a little more so.

A wise physician said recently that
although he fully appreciated the part
that the ultra violet rays play in our
health, he for one wished they could
be used only on a physician's pre-
scription, so dangerous is their misuse.
Remember that, and be careful that
your suntan never becomes sunburn.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Backstage Wife

(Continued from page 16)

Larry exclaimed. "There's an under-
statement for you."

Mary watched Peter Darnell as they
talked. He's too thin, she thought, and
noticed a diffidence in his manner as
if he were uncertain of himself, yet
his slender hands showed strength,
and his mouth was firm, thoughtful.
Then she saw the frayed cuff under
his coat sleeve, and, her attention
caught, realized how shabby his suit
was, how he lighted one cigarette
after the other, and how the sand-
wiches were disappearing under his
inroads upon them. She wondered,
with a shock, if he could be hungry,
and wished she had prepared some-
thing more substantial, roast beef, or
ham and cheese, instead of the dainty
nothings she had made so carefully.

Peter turned quickly, and caught
her intent gaze. He crossed over and
dropped down on a cushion at her
feet.

"Let me talk to you," he said. "They
don't need me. You're the reason for
the play. I saw you when I was
seventeen. You were on tour with
your husband, and that's when I de-
cided to be a playwright."

HE smiled up at her, his face had the
charm of something wild, un-
spoiled. Too fine drawn, Mary real-
ized. Life will hurt him, must have
hurt him already. "Twilight Sym-
phony" held too much pain for one
so young. He was talking rapidly:

"You see I love you, have loved you
since that first night I saw you at the
theater. I want you to know. It's
been everything to me — the one thing
I had to hold to with the world crack-
ing up — with all the horror there is in
it today."

"Peter," Mary said, quickly and
there was a catch in her voice — she
could not doubt the boy's utter sin-
cerity and simplicity — "for I'm calling
you Peter. You mustn't make a dream,
an ideal out of me. You don't know
me — "

"Yes, I do," Peter interrupted. "I'm
not blind. I can read in your face
what beauty, what fineness lies back
of its loveliness. And I've wanted you
to know how I feel about you. I had
to tell you. You understand, don't
you?"

"Yes, I do understand," she an-
swered, softly. Her heart ached for
Peter as she remembered some of the
bitter, desperate lines in his play.
Something was wrong, she felt, some-
thing was very wrong in his outlook
on life, or he could not have written
as he had of the "little fates" hound-
ing his hero to hopelessness. Larry
spoke from across the room, and his
eyes were quizzical.

"Dennis and I are going to the
office. Want to come, Darnell?"

"Oh, no," he answered promptly.
"I'd rather stay here and talk to Mrs.
Noble, if she'll let me."

"Can't say I blame you," Larry
laughed, and as he passed her on his
way to the door, he dropped a kiss on
Mary's hair. She lifted her hand and
patted his arm.

When they were alone, Peter
jumped to his feet, and prowled
around the room, lighting another
cigarette as he talked.

"I've so much to say, I've carried
on imaginary conversations with you
for years. Maybe, you'll find me an

JULY, 1941

awful bore. But, oh, Lord, how I've
longed to tell you things — what I've
thought — what I believe — Do you
think I'm crazy?" he asked, suddenly,
with a quick twist of his lips.

Mary shook her head.

"No, and since I read your play
there are many things I'd like to say
to you."

"That's great." He flung himself
down on the cushion once more. "I
had a friend, we used to discuss every-
thing on earth. I miss him. He cracked
up in Spain. He was flying for the
Loyalists. It was horrible, the plane
burned, and they couldn't get him
out." Peter looked down at his hands,
clenched his fists. "There's another
friend in China now. Not much of a
world when even the young haven't
a chance, where — " He glanced up at
Mary, his eyes like a trapped animal.
"If one were even sure that the fight
is for freedom, it wouldn't matter —
you'd be glad to give your life — but
suppose we're just being fooled, that
we're dying to save commercialism — "

"The 'little fates' of your play, that
mock and taunt, is that what you
mean?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Peter cried. "Always driving
one, never letting up — ■"

"Those 'little fates' can be inside
one, Peter," Mary said, gently.

"No, that's impossible." Peter was
excited. "They're outside. Think of the
cruelty, the greed, of children starv-
ing, of green, growing trees broken,
wheat fields barren, destroyed!"

"Yes, I know." Mary's voice was
low. The horror of the devastated
world had crept into the room with
his words. She forced it away with a
definite resistance. "Who made the
bombs, Peter? Who are starving the
children? Men, Peter. It's from the
souls of men that this evil has grown
and spread, and it's only from the
souls of other men that strength will
come to stop it."

Peter looked at her white face.

MARY, Mary, I've hurt you. On the
first day I meet you. Instead of
being happy and glad to be with you,
I bring all my devils with me. I al-
ways do the wrong thing — "

Mary jumped up and held out her
hands, smiling.

"Don't be foolish," she kept her
voice light, "nothing is as bad as you
make it, Peter. Let's go into the
kitchen, and I'll make coffee. We'll
have a cold supper. It may be hours
before Larry gets home."

Peter had left when Larry returned.
He had helped Mary wash the dishes.
Together they had laughed and joked,
he had been quite gay by the time he
had said goodby. She had put on a
neglige and was lying on the couch
when Larry opened the door. She sat
up, her hands outstretched, he came
over and kissed her. He was excited,
elated, all his former moodiness had
vanished.

"Peter's a remarkable boy," she
said. "Didn't you like him?"

"Hadn't much chance to find out.
You and he seemed to hit it off,
though."

"Yes, we did. But he's so lonely — "

"He has his dreams," Larry spoke,
carelessly. "Don't be too sorry for
him, my dear. He's able to take care
of himself."

Mary glanced quickly at her hus-

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band. Was she too easily stirred to
sympathy, or was Larry a little hard?

"In two weeks we'll be getting re-
hearsal money!" he exclaimed. "And
if the play's a success — it has to be —
it will be — "

He walked nervously up and down
the room.

"The part's made for you, dear,"
Mary said. She was happy to see him
so alive, so buoyant, yet she could not
help sigh. Rehearsals — once again to
be a backstage wife, to have Larry
preoccupied, living, thinking in a
world apart from her!

MARY faced the situation, and her-
self, quite frankly, as the old life
caught Larry into it, sweeping him
away from her. He was seldom home,
except to sleep and eat. That she
understood and accepted without com-
plaint. She was ready, even glad to
stand by, to encourage him, and to
soothe, as his nerves became taut
under the strain of the work he was
doing. But she could not disguise to
herself the fear she felt of the future.
Would his success, she asked herself,
mean a return of the old, impression-
able Larry, swayed and intrigued by
— yes, Mary told herself, be honest —
by other women? Their adoration had
been like a strong wine, turning the
Larry she loved into a stranger, so
much so, that more than once she had
doubted whether their marriage could
survive.

Mary, alone in the apartment, with
the slam of the door still echoing in
her ears as it closed behind her hus-
band, after a hurried and late break-
fast, went over to the long mirror.
Black hair waved softly around her
face, eyes, dark and widely spaced
under her clear brow, a tall, graceful
and slim body. It was not vanity
which made her study herself. Did it
mean that Larry's temperament de-
manded change, the stimulation of

new faces, new personalities? Did
familiarity bore and irk him? If that
were so — her hands dropped at her
sides in a hopeless, sad gesture — No,
no, she must remember the sweet in-
timacy, the bond which had been
created between them during these
past weeks. The telephone, ringing,
broke into her reflections, and she
hurried to it.

"Mary," it was Larry's voice, "do
you know where Peter lives?"

"No, certainly not. Doesn't Dennis
know?"

"He never got around to asking him
— he meant to — I'm at the theater,
we've been waiting. He was to bring
in a rewritten scene — we can't start
without him. Lord, I knew this was
too good to be true — I don't know
what we'll do — "

"Larry, Larry, he'll turn up. Some-
thing must have delayed him. Larry — "
but the receiver at the other end of
the line slammed in her ear.

Mary was frightened. Something
serious must have occurred to have
kept Peter away from the theater.
She remembered his white face, his
thin body. Suppose he were ill? It
meant disaster to them all if Peter
were missing. And during the frantic
day which followed all she could do
was to try and calm Larry's fears even
as her own doubts increased. They
had called the hospitals, had notified
the police, but the city seemed to have
closed over and hidden the missing
boy.

The next afternoon with Larry pac-
ing the floor and Mary unable to find
a word of encouragement, the tele-
phone rang. Mary answered, then
came running to Larry.

"It's Peter — no, not Peter — his land-
lady. He's sick. He wants us. I've
the address. Hurry, Larry, every-
thing's all right, now — "

But when Mary and Larry stood by
Peter's bed in a forlorn room, after a

"Bundles from Britain," the English models (left to right), Vivien Bowden,
Rosemarie Chance, Carol Vance, Gwenda Farrell, Peggy Meredith, who recent-
ly talked to Latin-America and their home country on an NBC International
broadcast about their stay in New York at a hotel in the Times Square area.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

climb up three nights of drab, lino-
leum-covered stairs, and she looked
into his eyes sunk deep in his thin
face Mary wondered if, perhaps, they
had found him too late to be of help.

"Mary," Peter pulled himself up on
his elbow, "I've been almost out of
my head. But, I wrote that scene,
Larry, it's over there." He pointed
to a broken down bureau near the
one window.

Larry seized the manuscript, but
Mary had no thought except for the
boy on the tumbled bed.

"Peter, dear," she was so sorry
for him. She forced him gently back
on the pillows. "Tell me, Peter,
about it."

"Oh," a faint color spread over his
face, "I was a fool. Didn't eat,
worked day and night — "

She could translate the words: No
money, too proud to ask for help.
She remembered how he had wolfed
the sandwiches the day he had come
to the apartment. How stupid, how
wickedly stupid she had been. She
patted his arm.

"We're taking care of you now."
Turning to Larry, she whispered
quickly, "Come out in the hall for a
minute."

He followed her with a puzzled
frown.

"Peter's sick because he's had no
food, no attention. I'm taking him
to our apartment, so I can look after
him. Why didn't we realize before — ?"

Larry's foot tapped nervously on
the floor.

"Mary, you can't do this. You've
enough to do as it is. He'll be all
right. I'll advance him some money.
We can't have another person with
us — in our home."

Mary flushed, but she checked the
words that rose to her lips. Larry
was not really being unkind when he
objected.

"He won't be any trouble. And,
Larry, surely you see how important
it is that Peter gets well, otherwise
he can't finish the play. He must be
on hand for all the rewriting and con-
sultations. We can't afford to have
anything more happening to him now."

Larry did not answer, he was
watching Mary, her eyes eager, her
lips tender, pleading. Then, abruptly,
dismissing the argument, he said,
"Arrange it anyway you like, Mary.
I've got to get to Dennis now to tell
him the news."

Mary hurried into Peter's room. Her
voice was gay. "We're taking you
home with us," and saw the amazed
joy which sprang to life in his eyes.

The doctor confirmed Mary's opin-
ion. Malnutrition, overwork, but noth-
ing so wrong with Peter Darnell that
rest, good food and care would not
cure. Mary fixed up the little bed-
room at the end of the hall, and Peter
was put to bed with orders that on
no account must he attempt to dress
and go out. Cold rains had set in, a
keen October wind tore the last leaves
from the trees. But Mary's happiness
and Peter's gratitude and devotion to
her filled the apartment with a cheer
and warmth which defied the gray
dreariness outside the windows. Until
one day Larry broke into unexpected
and bitter protests.

"Isn't it time," he exclaimed, "that
you thought a little more of me and
less of your so called patient? I know
it must be flattering to have anyone
so devoted to you, but . . ."

"Larry, dear, don't be silly. Peter is

only a boy, and I'm just an ideal he's
built up in his mind."

"I'm not so sure. And, what is he
to you, my dear?"

"A friend, a good friend. I've grown
fond of him, naturally." She held out
a note Peter had given her that morn-
ing. "Read this, Larry, and you'll
understand. He's tried to show me
how grateful he is."

Larry's eyebrows lifted as he glanced
over the letter. "For a married wo-
man, Mary — ■" and the paper ripped
in two under the sudden tightening
of his fingers.

"Oh, Larry," Mary's voice rose, and
there were tears in her eyes. "You've
torn it — ■"

"You're acting like a silly romantic."
Larry's voice had risen, too. He
tossed the scraps on the table and
swung toward the door. "I'll leave
you with Peter, while I work — "

As the door slammed behind Larry,
Mary flung herself down on the bed.
She forced herself to lie quietly. She
must be composed before she saw
Peter again. He was too sensitive to
her moods. Larry was being so fool-
ish. Her eyes closed, she realized she
was very tired.

THE apartment seemed very still
when Mary awoke. How long had
she slept, she wondered, sitting up,
and pushing the hair away from her
eyes. A cold rain beat against the win-
dows. She slipped to her feet,
stretched and yawned. Going into the
hall she called Peter, but there was
no answer. She walked to his door,
and glanced in. The room was empty.
But where could he be? She switched
on the light, and then she saw the
sheet of paper stuck in the mirror,

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„1TH THE MOVIE STARS.

JULY, 1941

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with her name on it. And, even as
she read, her face strangely white,
Larry came through the front door,
shaking drops of water from his hat.
Mary held the letter toward him.

"Larry! See what we've done." She
was nearer to anger than Larry had
ever seen her. "Peter's left — gone out
into this rain, when he can hardly
stand on his feet. Oh, Larry, he heard
us quarreling about him — he's left be-
cause he thought he'd made trouble
between us — "

"He's a young fool!" Larry ex-
claimed. He walked to the window.
"Just look at this weather. Haven't
we worries enough without this? And
we open in three nights — "

There were tears in Mary's eyes.

"Larry, we must do something."

"What can we do? He'll hide some-
where. Good Lord, I hope he doesn't
collapse on the street. You'd better
call all the hospitals, give them his
description, and tell them to notify us
if he's brought in. That's all we can
do." Larry turned toward her, and
she read contrition in his face. "I'm
sorry, Mary," he said. "It's all my
fault. I should have kept my temper —
but with my future at stake — "

Mary nodded, she could not speak.
She shivered as she looked at the icy
rain beating against the windows.
Somehow, in some way, she should
have managed to handle the situation
without this. Her first duty was to
Larry, but where, oh, where was
Peter? The question beat at the back
of her mind through the succeeding
days. She told herself over and over
that she had done all she could. And,
as she entered the theater on the night
of Larry's opening, and turned up the
iron stairs to the star's dressing room,
she refused to think of Peter. This
was Larry's hour. It had been one of
the joys of her marriage that Larry
always wanted her to be in the wings
on his opening night.

But the telephone was ringing as
she reached Larry's room. He was
before the mirror, and a quick smile
passed between them as she lifted the
receiver. Mary stopped smiling.

"Yes, I understand — yes, I'll — I'll
come if — as soon as I can." She stood
silent a minute as she hung up the
receiver, and her hands twisted to-
gether. "Larry, dear — Peter's been
found. That was the City Hospital
calling. He's very ill, pneumonia — he
may not live — and— he's asking for
me." Her eyes searched Larry's face
with a desperate question.

There was silence in the room. Then
he came to her and took her cold
fingers in his.

"You must go, Mary," he said.

"But, Larry — oh, my dear — I want
to be with you — tonight — "

"I know. I've counted on your being
here. But, Mary, it's my fault that
Peter may be dying. I don't need you
as much as he. I understand, Mary."

But did he understand, Mary won-
dered, or did the amazing and instant
success of "Twilight Symphony" com-
pensate for her absence? Perhaps —
she did not know. Yet, surely, it in-
dicated a change in Larry that during
the first weeks of his triumph he
offered and gave his blood for a
transfusion which saved Peter's life.

MARY faced the fifth anniversary of
her marriage with a strange joy
and a sense of anticipation. So much
had happened during the past months.
Thanksgiving was over. Peter was up
and about, elated by the success of his
play as well as by a suggestion made

to him by Larry as soon as he had
been strong enough to discuss busi-
ness. Mary had found in Peter's
deserted room an unfinished manu-
script called "The Bluebirds of Happi-
ness," and Larry had immediately
realized its possibilities as a radio
script. Both he and Peter wanted
her to star in it.

At first she had refused. It would
be a wonderful part, and she'd enjoy
working again, particularly in radio.
But she was not Mary Noble the
actress, she was Mary Noble, the wife
of Larry Noble. She wanted to give
all her thoughts, all her time and
energy, to her home.

Larry had laughed at her. "Run-
ning a home is a part-time job for
you, Mary, and you know it. Stop
being so conscientiously unselfish.
Anyone with half an eye could see
that you're itching to get your fingers
on that role."

Blushing a little, she'd had to admit
to herself that he was right. Besides,
it was warmly comforting to know
someone wanted her to do such work,
comforting, too, that Larry realized
this and was proud of her, anxious to
see her caught up in the same whirl of
exciting activity that he himself lived
in nowadays.

She smiled at her thoughts as she
dressed for the very informal party
that was to celebrate her fifth wed-
ding anniversary. Peter and Dennis
were to be the only guests, the only
friends she was willing to have with
her and Larry on that day. The bell
rang, and Dennis stood at the door
with a great bunch of flowers in his
arms. She was arranging these as
Peter and Larry came in. Mary
laughed gaily:

"You both look like two little boys
caught stealing jam — what is it?"
Larry kissed her, and handed her a
box. Mary untied the ribbons and
lifting the lid gazed fascinated at a
beautiful jeweled bluebird.

"And there's another surprise for
you," Larry said. "We've got a spon-
sor for the 'Bluebird' script. Peter
will write it — and you're to be starred,
Mary. If you will . . ."

"Oh!" Her eyes glowing, she looked
at Peter's happy face. "I'm so glad
for you, Peter."

"You can't hold out now, Mary,"
Larry was saying. He put his hands
on her arms, holding her close. "Be-
lieve me, dear, I really want you to."

"All right," she said suddenly,
gladly. "I will!"

Larry bent and kissed her. "Good.
I'm glad. And now — there's still an-
other surprise — "

"Surely, nothing more!" Mary ex-
claimed. She saw Larry's deep tender-
ness, her breath caught. "You mean
. . ." The hope she had so long hidden
in her heart. "The — "

"Yes, the baby." Larry flung open
the door, and there stood a nurse with
Larry, Junior, in her arms. Unable
to speak, Mary stretched out her
hands, touching, holding, drawing to
her the soft little body. She realized
Larry was beside her, and heard him
say: "He's to stay with us, Mary —
he's well enough to come home."

Mary pressed her son to her breast.
She looked at the two friends who
were watching her, then her eyes
fastened on the glittering bluebird pin
in its box.

"The bluebird of happiness has
come to me . . . I've never, never been
so happy in all my life. I — I can't
say it — I have everything, everything
— even the baby's laughing — "

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Peter turned and filled the glasses
on the table. He handed one to
Dennis, and brought two to Mary and
Larry. He raised his own.

"To Mary Noble."

And Mary felt tears of joy steal
softly across her cheeks, and Larry's
lips press her forehead.

Mary looked forward to the coming
winter with a sense of well-being she
had not known for years. Worries,
fears and doubts had disappeared. She
smiled at the thought that the blue-
bird of happiness had, at last, found
rest in her home. Larry, a success,
playing to full houses, no longer a
prey to doubts and discouragements,
her baby at home, well and strong,
Peter, not only a co-worker, but a
friend to whom she could talk
freely.

It was a surprising relief not to have
to face difficulties. Mary had had so
much of that in the past: The strain
of Larry's restlessness, his infatua-
tions, at times, for other women, the
burden of sustaining their marriage
against encroachments from all sides.
So it was with an almost careless
gaiety that Mary settled down into the
winter's plans. There were, indeed,
times when she checked herself, and
wondered, almost guiltily, if in this
torn and tragic world, she had the
right to be so happy. She said as
much to Peter one day, when, after
her broadcast, they walked up Fifth
Avenue and turned into the Park.
It was cold and clear, Mary's cheeks
were glowing, her eyes bright, and
her body swung gracefully against
the wind, which, though sharp, was
not too strong for comfort.

DETER," she exclaimed, "is all this
' too good to last? Have I the right
to be so happy, so gay? After Larry
came home last night, or rather," she
laughed, "in the wee hours of the
morning, and we had talked, I lay in
the dark and I thought of the agony
in Europe, the ruined homes — " Her
voice died away, her eyes were fixed
on some far distance, not seeing the
bare branches of the trees against the
blue sky, not thinking, for a few
seconds, even of her own words.

She was again in her room, and
Larry's arms were around her, her
head was on his shoulder, and he was
telling her of some incident which had
occurred earlier that evening at the
theater. She had scarcely listened,
too aware of his closeness, in those
still hours before dawn. She had
realized how wonderful it was to know
such emotional delight after five years
of marriage, and had asked her-
self, and as quickly put the question
aside, if this might have been lost
through use and familiarity, if those
years had been contented and secure.
Then with his kiss still warm on her
lips, she had lain watching the gray
outline of the window against the
night, and the thought of bombed
cities, of husbands dead, of children
sent for safety across seas, of the
waste and terror let loose on the
world had crept over her like a pain.
She had stretched out her hand, and
had felt Larry's arm, and her fingers
closing over it, she had found com-
fort, and so had fallen asleep.

But the remembrance had haunted
her. She felt she could tell Peter, and
he would understand.

"Yes, Mary," Peter was saying, "I
know just how you feel. But you
mustn't tear yourself to pieces over it,
it doesn't help. And you've earned a
right to your happiness. You've always

JULY, 1941

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thought of others, never of yourself.
And I do believe that every bit of
joy we know, every word of love and
praise, goes out into the world, and
somehow, somewhere, helps to defeat
the forces of evil which seem so strong
these days."

"That's a beautiful thought, Peter,"
Mary said, gently, "if it were only
true. It's poetry — "

"Poets see things as they really are,
though others may think it's mere
imagination." Peter's voice was rueful.

"I don't, indeed, I don't. But you
keep me on such a height that I'd be
dizzy if I believed all you said."

"Haven't you driven away my 'little
fates' which tormented me for so long,
and made me happy for the first time
in my life?"

They walked on, quietly, until Mary
noticed the sky naming a sullen red
in the west.

"Look, Peter, how late it is. It must
be almost time for Larry's supper,
and he'll be wondering where I am.
We can go out later for dinner, but I
don't like him to start for the theater
without my seeing him."

But Larry was in a preoccupied and
brusque mood when they reached the
apartment. He was walking restlessly
about the living room while the maid
prepared his early supper, and as he
glanced at their faces, flushed and
bright from the cold air, he seemed
to shut himself away, almost delib-
erately, from their light-heartedness.
Mary followed him into the dining
room, leaving Peter with a book, but
Larry had little to say.

"You were gone when I woke up.
I waited around, thinking you'd be
home, and we'd go for a walk. But
I see you took one with Peter, instead."

"Oh, Larry, dear, I am sorry. I wish
I'd known. You're here so seldom.
Couldn't we do something this Sun-
day?"

"This Sunday? I'm appearing at a
benefit for the Overseas Milk Drive,
have you forgotten?"

Mary leaned toward him, and
pressed her hand over his fingers
nervously tapping the table.

"My dear, aren't you doing just a
bit too much of that sort of thing?
We want to do all we can, but don't
wear yourself out — "

"Are the people over there thinking
of the cost?" Larry said.

KA ARY'S hand dropped to her side,
,VI her eyes were hurt and a little
bewildered.

"I didn't mean that, Larry, you
know I didn't."

Later that evening, when both
Larry and Peter had gone, she faced
the situation honestly. Larry had
been abrupt when she came in with
Peter. Perhaps against his will, he

had been jealous. It didn't matter
that there wasn't anything, really, to
be jealous about. That was entirely
beside the point. She determined,
then, to see much less of Peter Darnell.

It was not a resolution that was easy
to keep. The radio series, for one
thing, brought them together con-
stantly. Peter depended on her criti-
cisms, was constantly calling on her
for advice and help. After rehearsals
he took it for granted that they would
walk to her home together, and you
couldn't, you simply couldn't, say:
"Peter, I can't see you except when
it's necessary for the program, because
I'm afraid my husband is jealous."

As the weeks passed, she began to
wonder, too, if she had really read
Larry's irritability correctly. Perhaps,
she told herself, it was only that he
and she both were tired. She was
working very hard, and, of course,
Larry was busy — unnecessarily busy,
she believed. Why did he stay, night
after night, at the theater, gossiping
with friends? Did he have to accept
quite as many social engagements as
he did?

One bitter, snow-swept February
afternoon, Peter dropped in unex-
pectedly for tea. She was sitting with
him before the fire, the baby playing
on a white bear-skin rug, when Larry
entered the room — and stopped, a
frown crisping his forehead.

Mary rose eagerly. "Larry ! I didn't
know you were up. Come and have
some tea."

"No," he said shortly, with barely
a nod in the direction of Peter, who
was standing, too, his face showing
that he felt the strain Larry had
brought with him. "I'm due at the
theater soon, I'd better go now."

"But Larry, it isn't five yet! You
don't have to hurry."

Larry said nothing, and in the
gathering pause Peter flushed and
said, "I think I'd better run along."

"No. Stay and keep Mary com-
pany," Larry almost ordered. He
turned and left the room.

Mary followed him.

"Larry, dear, why be rude?" she
said gently. "Please come back and
have some tea."

His hand on the knob of the door
to the closest where the coats were
kept, he stood, considering. At last
he shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to
be boorish. Of course I'll stay."

So the little rough spot in the fabric
of their lives appeared to be smoothed
over. For perhaps half an hour the
three of them were together before
the fire, making polite, desultory con-
versation. Then Peter left, and she
and Larry talked of the baby, of
Broadway gossip, of inconsequential
matters until finally all sense of dis-

BRACE BEEMER — who took over the role of the Lone Ranger after
the tragic death of Earle Graser. Brace is no stranger to the role,
because he played it when the show first went on the air nine years
ago. Later he became the narrator, a post he held until Graser was
killed in an automobile accident. Brace fits the part perfectly —
he weighs 200 pounds, is six feet three inches tall and an expert
horseman and pistol shot. He served with distinction in the last
war, saw action at Argonne and Luneville, and was wounded twice.
In 1930 he joined the staff of WXYZ, where the Ranger show origi-
nates for the Mutual network. He's married, has three boys and one
girl, and lives on a farm in Michigan, where he raises fine horses.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

cord between them was gone.

But the next day it was as if that
firelit hour of simple happiness had
never been, and Mary realized it was
only an interlude.

Mary was surprised at the increas-
ing effort she was having to make to
carry herself through these last, long
days of winter. She had endured
much more strenuous activity in the
past and not felt its effect, and she
wondered, at times, if it must not be
her inner uneasiness which was sap-
ping her strength. Even her broad-
casts had lost their interest. New York
seemed a welter of noises, and she
was not sleeping well.

One morning she caught Larry at a
late breakfast. She was on her way
out to a conference with Peter and
her program director, Christy. She
stopped on a sudden impulse.

"My dear," she said, and her hand
pressed gently on his shoulder,
"What's happened to us? We were
so happy — and now — "

He glanced up from the morning
paper, his mouth wry. "You really
don't know?"

"I — I don't think I do," she mur-
mured. "It's just — the job of living
seems so heavy — we neither of us get
a chance to see each other, talk the
way we should."

"I do have free hours, you know.
But they always appear to come when
you're busy with" — he hesitated for the
merest fraction of a second — "Peter."

"Please, Larry!" Her voice, sur-
prisingly, was sharp. She discovered
that she was weary of placating Larry
about something that, to her mind,
required no excuses. "Can't we keep
Peter out of the conversation?"

WE don't have much success in
keeping him out of our lives."

"There's no reason why we should!
Naturally I have to see him — he writes
the radio program you yourself urged
me to take."

Larry pushed his plate away. The
food on it was scarcely touched. "I
know, I know," he nodded wearily.
"I guess what really bothers me is
that he is obviously crazy about you,
and I think you enjoy it."

"That's not true!" she cried with
nervous vehemence, really believing
what she said. "And I see so little of
you, I can't be a hermit. You seem
to find reasons for staying away from
home, and when you're here, you're
not very friendly."

Larry, staring into his coffee, did
not answer. The clock in the hall
struck, she was late for her appoint-
ment already, but she would have
stayed to talk this thing out . . . ex-
cept that she knew it would do no
good. Just now, they were both in-
capable of rational speech. They
seemed to want to hurt themselves
and each other, and go on hurting.

Her mind ran in circles as she
drove to the studio, and, suddenly, she
saw one thing clearly. She must get
away, by herself, to some place where
there was peace and quiet. There
were contending forces pulling at her
here, without, as well as within her-
self. She longed for bright sunlight
on her body, the feel of warm waves
closing over her. She was sick of the
broadcasts which now appeared as
sweet sentimentality, untrue to the
realities of life. A career had never
appealed to her. She would talk to
Christy, and see her sponsor. Surely
they would release her from her con-
tract, and find someone else to take
her place.

JULY, 1941

To her surprise, though Christy was
sympathetic and understanding, he
was not willing for her to give up the
program. He was sure something
could be arranged to the satisfaction
of all concerned. And in a few days
he appeared with a counter sugges-
tion. The broadcasts could be trans-
ferred to Florida. The sponsor had
suggested that Mary live in his home
just outside Miami. The servants were
there, the house was ready, and he
had decided not to go south this
winter. Mary consented; there was
really nothing else to be done. She
would leave in a week's time. She
told Larry, wondering what his reac-
tion would be, to be answered by a
brief:

"Good idea, you're looking run
down. And, anyway, if that's what
you want to do, it's not my affair."

And Mary knew she had hoped for
protests, or, at least, some sign given,
some word spoken, which would show
he would miss her.

It was the next afternoon, as Mary
came in from shopping, that a pale
and angry Larry turned to face her
from the window where he had been
standing. As he crushed out his ciga-
rette, he said, his voice hard:

"I hadn't realized Peter was going
with you."

"But he's not." Mary stared, her
hands motionless at the fur piece she
had started to unfasten.

"You must have known. I met him
and Christy at the Club, and they told
me. As Peter said, he has to write
the script, he needs your inspiration,
and the Florida sunshine will be good
for him, too."

Mary dropped into a chair, and
looked directly at Larry.

"Believe me, Larry, I didn't know."

"But — you're not sorry?"

Mary was silent; just what should
she say? She was not sorry, it would
be company to have Peter with her.
She would be honest.

"No, I'm not, Larry," she said,
"but you must believe me when I
tell you again I had nothing to do
with it."

"I see," was all he said.

"No, Larry, I don't think you do,"
Mary replied.

MARY let the telegram drop into
her lap, as she lay stretched in a
long chair, under the brilliant sun of a
Florida morning. It was from Larry,
and it amazed her. She remembered
a hurried, rather brusque Larry who
had kissed her goodby just before
the Southern Limited had pulled out
of the station. He had given the baby
a hug, nodded to Peter and Christy,
and had gone, not turning for a smile
or a wave of the hand. She had been
a strangely muddled Mary; she, whose
emotions had always been direct and
uncomplicated, had not liked the pull
of contending tensions. So she had
concentrated on regaining her physi-
cal strength and her nervous energy,
before she would permit herself to
do any serious thinking. But now the
feeling of uncertainty closed around
her again. Why was Larry coming
south? She knew from the papers,
and from his letters, that he was still
playing to full houses, and here he
was closing at the end of March. She
read the telegram.

"Will be with you in a day or two.
Hope there will be a welcome for me.
Larry."

Her eyes, puzzled and thoughtful,
traveled to her son in his play pen,
a lovely, rosy tan, laughing and romp-

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ing, in high good humor with himself
and the world. What a wonderful
opportunity it had been for him after
his months in a hospital. She was
eager for the sight of his father. But
the telegram: "Hope there will be a
welcome for me" — surely, Larry did
not believe — yet, why, just why, had
she so consistently ignored the fact
that Peter had been a cause of fric-
tion? Because she had thought Larry
unreasonable, or because she really
wanted Peter with her? She rose to
her feet, pushing these questions out
of her mind. She wished she knew
just when Larry would arrive. She
had accepted an invitation to go with
Peter and Christy to a night club in
Miami the next evening, and she did
not want to be away from home when
he came.

But there was no sign of Larry by
the time Peter and Christy drove up
to the house to have dinner with her
before they started out. It was while
they were on the terrace that they
heard the sound of a car, and Mary,
turning, saw Larry coming across the
lawn toward them. She ran to him,
with a glad cry, and for a second,
his arms were tight about her, his lips
hard on hers. Then he drew away,
and greeted the others.

JUST in time, Larry!" Christy ex-
•* claimed. "We're having dinner,
then going out somewhere."

"No, oh, no," Mary cried; "Larry
must be tired. I'll go another time — "

"I'm not tired," Larry interrupted.
"Of course we'll all go. I wouldn't
think of breaking up your party,
Mary. I'll run up and change — won't
take long."

"I'll show you your room." Mary
walked quickly toward the long
window.

"Don't bother, the maid will tell me."

Mary stopped, rebuffed. Without
another word she went over to a chair
and sat down, and as she lifted her
eyes, she met Peter's gaze, full of
sympathy.

Mary had never felt less like being
gay than during the evening which
followed. She had been unable to
have a word with Larry, to ask him

about his message, and from the first
she had disliked the atmosphere of
the place they had gone to dance.
There was something unpleasant and
tawdry about it. While she and Peter
were dancing, she decided to end the
whole wretched attempt to have a
good time, and to go home. She
glanced around. Larry had risen to
his feet, and was staring toward the
main hallway. Then he ran toward
them, and caught her arm.

"Who suggested this place?" he de-
manded. "I thought there was some-
thing peculiar about it — it's a gam-
bling place, and we've been caught in
a raid. We've got to get out — "

There were sudden cries, a scramble
of people, and then Mary saw the
blue coated figures. The next second
Christy was beside them.

"This way — quick — through the
kitchens — and Mary, cover your face."

They stumbled along a dark pas-
sage, and as they emerged into the
night, and jumped into the car, Larry
asked:

"Think the reporters saw us?"

"Reporters?" Mary gasped.

"Count on them," Peter muttered,
and Christy added in a dejected voice:

"This sort of publicity could ruin
our radio program."

And Mary sought Larry's hand, for-
getful of herself, thinking only of
what it might do to his reputation.

When they were, at last, in their
room, Mary tried to speak, but Larry
was not listening. He took her in his
arms, and pressed her close to him;
his lips were possessive, demanding.
She could not deny his love, she did
not wish to deny it, but even as she
responded, her heart was seeking for
something more than passion — passion
which even as it demands and gives
can leave untouched such vast regions
of sweetness and unity.

She slept little that night, and early
the next morning she slipped into
sandals and slacks, and crept quietly
from the room. She was drinking her
coffee when she saw Peter on the pier.
Larry had insisted that both he and
Christy stay the night, and not run
the gantlet of reporters who might
be looking for them at their hotel.

The National Father's Day Committee selected Jimmy Dorsey, bandleader
of Your Happy Birthday program, as an outstanding father in radio for
1941. Here's Jimmy with his wife and daughter, Julie Lou, age nine.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Mary hurried out of the house and
across the lawn, and as she reached
him, he held the morning newspaper
toward her. She felt sick with dismay
as she saw the pictures of herself
and Larry and Peter on the front
page, and read the captions under
them. But before she had a chance
to say anything, there were cries of:

"Oh, Mrs. Noble— Mr. Darnell—"
and turning, they saw three reporters
dashing across the lawn.

Without a word Peter leaped for
the motor boat tied at the pier, and
held up his hands for Mary. And as
they roared toward the open water
beyond the cove, the disappointed
shouts of the group on the shore came
faintly to their ears.

"Well, we gave them the slip!" Peter
cried, gaily.

Mary laughed, then grew serious.

"Yes, but we'd better go back.
They'll find Larry, and he — well, he'll
be annoyed."

"Mary, I wonder if you know what
I'd give to have you always thinking
of me, protecting me like that." He
looked at her, where she stood, steady-
ing herself beside him in the rushing
boat. "Larry's so darn lucky — and he
doesn't even know it — he takes so
much for granted — "

THE wind in their faces blew away
the sound of his voice. Mary sank
down on the seat, and looked ahead
toward the wide sweep of the open
sea, sparkling under the sun. Peter
started to sing, and Mary felt sheer
joy at their swift motion, and the
spray dashing, at times, across her
face. The wind freshened, the waves
mounted, and, at last, Mary glanced
around with a worried frown.

"Turn back, Peter!" she called. "I
don't like the look of the sky, and
the wind's awfully strong. This is
hurricane season, you know, and
we're a long way from the shore."

"I've been a darn fool," he ex-
claimed. "It was such fun I forgot
there might be danger. There's a
storm coming up, all right, but we'll
make land first — don't worry. Look
out!" A wave hit them, and drove
them head on into an angry sea.

Mary set her lips, and fought away
her fears. And then, even as the rain
fell in long sheets of water, a cry from
Peter brought her staggering to her
feet.

"The engine's stalled — hurry — " he
lurched toward her, and the boat, roll-
ing helplessly, shipped water. Fum-
bling with chilled fingers under the
lashing rain, they struggled into life
preservers — and then Mary felt her-
self lifted and flung, her eyes blinded
by the surge of water, her face bruised
by its fury. Somewhere in the smoth-
ering spray, Peter found her, and to-
gether, they fought to keep afloat,
tossed one minute up a rushing
height, then dropped into a sucking
green waste. All thought had gone,
every emotion, except the sheer physi-
cal effort for life, when at last she
found herself torn from Peter's grasp,
and carried with an onrushing wave
far up onto a beach. Dizzy, half
stunned, and breathless, she struggled
to sit up, and saw Peter crawling over
the sand toward her. He caught her
in his arms, and together they hud-
dled, heads bent before the wind and
the rain that cut like a knife. Then,
suddenly as it had come, the wind
veered, rolling its burden of rain-
filled clouds out to sea, and the sun
poured over them.

The hours which followed were

JULY, 1941

utter misery. They were bruised,
weary, aching; their faces and lips
stung by the salt sea, were dry and
parched. There were a few palms in
the center of the island, and Peter,
leaving Mary under them, stumbled
off in a search for fresh water to ease
their almost unbearable thirst. All
he could find was rain caught in the
hollow of some rocks, and he helped
her to it, and after they had drunk
and cooled their stinging faces, they
stretched themselves on the rough
grass, too exhausted to sleep, aching
in every nerve. Mary's thoughts raced
with the pounding on the shore and
the sunlight dancing against her closed
eyelids, and those thoughts were of
Larry — Larry — She pressed her hands
to her eyes to keep back the tears.
If there were only some way to let
him know she was safe — safe on a
tiny island, shut off from escape by
the sea still rolling and tossing around
it. She slept, at last, worn out, and
when she opened her eyes, the sky
was deepening into night. She sat
up, fighting against faintness, and then
she heard the swift running of feet,
and Peter calling with a desperate
urgency which brought her erect.

"Mary, Mary," he was racing across
the island, and she stumbled toward
him, terror giving her strength. Then
she saw it: a motor boat on the further
shore, with a huddled figure at the
wheel. She was beside it, lifting the
fallen head, staring into the white face
of Larry. Even as she looked, her
hands gripping his shoulders, his eye-
lids lifted.

A light sprang into the dull eyes
as he tried to touch her; then he
choked back a moan:

"Can't move — my back — " And his
head dropped limply against her
breast.

WITH care they managed, at last, to
free Larry from the broken steer-
ing wheel, and carried him up the
bank and laid him on the grass. Mary
holding Larry's head in her lap, mur-
mured broken words of love. Her
heart seemed choking her, her whole
world centered in the limp body be-
fore her, and her hand shook as she
brushed the hair from his eyes —
Larry, Larry — injured, hurt — in pain
— no, no, it must not be —

He was speaking, and she bent over
him to hear his words.

"I followed. When that storm broke
— I — oh, ray dear — I went crazy. I'd
seen you leave — I knew about this
island — I had to find you. That wind,
those waves, and you somewhere in
them! I headed for here, I hoped and
prayed you'd make it, and then I
crashed up — Mary, you're not hurt —
you're all right?"

"My dear, my dear, I'm not hurt.
But your back — oh, my darling, we
must do something — "

"I don't think it's serious, and may-
be, we can signal a fishing boat."

He closed his eyes, and Mary looked
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Larry to the mainland."

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pain, exaltation, purpose, tightened
the lines around his mouth, and his
strained, tired face seemed all at once
that of an older man. He came over
to her, and put his hand on her
shoulder.

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"I'll get you, Mary and Larry,"
subtly his tone linked the names to-
gether, "out of this." Then he turned
away down the beach.

LARRY opened his eyes.
"Mary, I love you. I knew I didn't
want to go on if — if I'd lost you.
Life wouldn't be worth while — "

Her lips pressed his. She was sud-
denly calm, with the great uprush of
love which filled her came strength
and certainty. All their difficulties,
their misunderstandings merged and
faded before the one, real fact of her
life: Larry, and Larry's love. And
in the quiet of the night, after she
had stretched herself beside him,
everything in the past slipped into its
proper place. She saw her relation-
ship to Peter in its true light, one
which she had enjoyed, and beautiful
in itself, but of slight value if it in
any way endangered her life with
Larry. Shocked into facing facts, she
knew now how meaningless existence
would be to either of them without
the other. She turned, sighed, and, at
last, with her arm thrown out across
Larry, slept worn out, and exhausted,
but at peace.

The sun striking into her eyes, voices
shouting, woke her, and sitting up,
she saw men from a life guard cutter,
coming up the beach. In amazement
she and Larry listened to their story.
Peter had managed to swim to shore,
when the moon, during the tropic
night, had made it almost as light as
day. He had telephoned the station,
and had sent help. Peter had risked
his life for them! It had been brave
of him, it had been fine — she must
tell him so, but even her first rush
of gratitude was forgotten in her
anxiety over Larry and his welfare.

It was a tired, but happy Mary, who,
several hours later, bathed and
dressed, drank her coffee at a table
drawn close to Larry's bed. The doc-
tor had assured them that his injury
was not serious, only a bad strain,
he would be up and around again in
a few days. Peter had telephoned,
saying he would not come up at once;
he had brushed away Mary's thanks
and words of praise; there had been
a new and different quality in his
voice. Though Mary wondered at his
decision, she was glad not to see him.

It was not until several days later
that Larry showed Mary a letter
he had received the morning of their
rescue. They were having breakfast
on the terrace when he handed it
to her. It contained an offer from
Hollywood to film "Twilight Sym-
phony." Even as Mary was reading
it, and Larry was saying he had de-
cided to accept, Peter came through
the long window from the living room.

"Walked up to see how you are,"
he said. "Besides I've — well, there
are some things I'd like to tell you,
Mary," he glanced at her.

Larry had stopped speaking. He
sat, very quietly, looking out over
the glittering waters of the cove.

"Read this, Peter." Mary held the
letter toward him.

"That's great!" he exclaimed, as he
finished the last page. "It fits my
plans. Of course, it's Larry's part, I
wouldn't Let anyone else touch it. And
Mary I want you to be my business
representative."

"Why, Peter? You'll be there."

Peter shook his head.

"No, I'm staying here to finish my
new play, and do some other writing.
Besides — I — well — I'm not going, that's
all."

"You still want to come with me,
Mary?" Larry asked. There was a
strange inflection in his voice, a taut-
ness to his face.

"Of course I do." Mary smiled quiet-
ly, meeting his eyes, her own filled
with happiness. There was silence.
Larry pushed his chair away, and
touched her shoulder, her hand went
up and caught his.

"We'll be leaving in a few days. I'll
see you again, Peter. You said you
had something to say to Mary, so I'll
run along."

After Larry had gone, Peter turned
a strained face to Mary.

"It's goodby, my dear. I learned
something important the other night
on the island, and that was how
much you love Larry, and he loves
you. You're a dream and an ideal to
me — you just about saved my soul.
The world was so bitter and bleak,
or that was the way it seemed to
me. But now, having met you, I know
better, I can see it through your eyes,
it's beautiful and fine, though hard
at times. But I'm an outsider. Larry
doesn't understand my love for you.
I can't say I blame him. Anyway I've
made trouble, so I'm getting out. I'll
stay here, and you go your way. It's
the only thing to do."

YES, Peter, you're right." How glad
she was that he had seen for him-
self that this was the thing to do.
She need not hurt him by telling him
to leave her. And she did not fear
for his future. He had found himself,
and there was strength under his sen-
sitivity. She held out her hands as
she rose to her feet.

"Goodby, Peter," she said, "we've
had a wonderful friendship, and it's
made me very happy. But it's best we
aren't together. I love Larry more
than anything in the world, and I
want to make him happy. I've been
wrong to let our relationship — inno-
cent as it's been — continue. It wasn't
fair to you, or to Larry."

"It was more than fair to me, be-
cause you've shown me how to live."

He held her hands very tightly,
then he bent and kissed her on the
forehead. He turned with a quick
gesture, and walked away, across the
terrace and along the drive. Mary
watched him until a clump of bushes
hid him from sight, then she went
swiftly into the house, calling:

' Larry — Larry — ' '

He met her in the hall, and put his
hands on her shoulders; their eyes
looked steadily, searchingly into each
other's.

"Mary!" Larry's voice was hesitant,
"I've made blunders — I've — been
thoughtless — but you know I love
you."

"I've been silly, too, Larry, very silly,
but there's only you — there's always
been only you — for me, my dear."

There was a singing certainty in
Mary's heart. They were not only go-
ing together to Hollywood, they were
together as they had never been be-
fore. They had found that sustaining
quality which holds a marriage firm
through the routine of life, the con-
tending ripples of personalities. She
read the same knowledge in Larry's
eyes. Her thoughts leaped forward
to the future. She began to speak of
their immediate plans: contracts to be
signed, tickets bought, trunks packed.
And so, walking side by side, his arm
across her shoulders, Mary and Larry
passed out through the doorway into
the brilliant sunshine, talking eagerly,
and there was laughter in their voices.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Young Widder Brown

(Continued from page 29)

Ellen heard her sobbing in her room
and went in to her.

Mark had heard his sister, too, and
was sitting at the foot of her bed try-
ing to hold in his own fears, but they
were there just the same in his eyes
and in his voice trying to sound so
pathetically grown up.

"It's just because she doesn't like
Dr. Loring," Mark had said, gulping a
little to keep back his own tears. "And
I don't either, because he's trying to
take you away from us. Janey keeps
crying all the time, Mummy, but she
made me promise not to tell you."

"That's so absurd," Ellen had
pleaded. "Why can't we all be happy
together, Anthony and you and I?
Don't you see, it's not taking anything
away from you, it's giving you some-
thing you don't remember having?
A father who will love you as much
as I do."

"But. he isn't our father, Mummy,"
Janey said defiantly. "He's just a
man we don't even know very well.
Oh, Mummy, it was so nice before
he came, you'd always be here and
now, even if you aren't out with him
or something, you might just as well
be, with him calling you on the phone
just at the times when we've got so
much to tell you."

YET in the end it wasn't Janey who
made Ellen reach her decision, but
Anthony.

One afternoon a week she was in
the habit of going to the Health
Center, making herself useful there
while Martha Todd, the head nurse,
snatched a few hours of rest. This
afternoon, as she was preparing to
leave the Center, Anthony suggested
that he get the car and take her for
a ride. "We can stop somewhere and
get something to eat," he urged, "if
you'll let Hilda take care of things
for once at the tea room."

He hadn't understood her refusal
at all. He couldn't see that she must
inevitably feel guilty at not being
home when the children arrived.

"But don't you see?" Ellen had
tried to explain. "If they were a little
younger, so that they hadn't grown
so dependent on me, so used to not
sharing me with anybody, or if they
were older so they had found their
own interests, it would be different.
But they're just at the age when it's
hardest for them to accept anything
new in our relationship. They're old
enough to realize that you're impor-
tant to me and to resent it, yet they're
too young to see that sharing me with
you won't make any difference and
that loving you won't interfere with
my love for them. You can under-
stand that, can't you, darling?"

"I can understand that you're spoil-
ing them," Anthony said then. "It isn't
fair to any of us, Ellen, least of all to
yourself. Unselfishness isn't always
a virtue, sometimes it's much more
of a fault. You're not doing those
children a favor, giving in to them
this way."

She looked at him then and sud-
denly she was seeing a man she had
never met before, a stranger who
threatened the happiness of her own
children. How could he understand
the way things really were, the
things no one knew but Janey and
Mark and herself? What did he
know of the struggle they'd had, the

JULY, 1941

three of them, or of the way that
struggle had united them? How could
he gauge the depths of a parent's
love, he who had never had a child?

But seeing him look at her, his eyes
suddenly afraid as if he knew the
thoughts racing through her brain,
she almost weakened. It was hard
to be analytical, loving him as she
did, wanting him, his arms and his
lips, longing to feel again the peace
that always came as he held her.

"Anthony," she said then. "I ... I
don't know quite how to say it, to
make you understand, but we can't go
on this way. I've got to have time
to think things out."

He took that quick step toward her
and before she really knew it was
happening, she was in his arms and
the excitement came again and the
old ridiculous happiness and for a
moment there were only the two of
them in the whole wide world and
nothing else mattered, nothing at all.

"There's nothing to think about,
darling," Anthony whispered. "Every-
thing's been decided. It was the mo-
ment we first saw each other. Oh,
darling, marry me now, right away."

His words broke the spell that had
held her. The enchantment, the wild,
singing happiness was gone and only
the doubts remained. In Anthony's
arms everything seemed so easy.

"Please, Anthony," she whispered.
"I have to think this out. And I can't
when I'm with you. Won't you give
me a little time, a week maybe? I'm
so confused and bewildered. Don't
you see, I have to do the thing that
will insure my children's happiness?"

"But what about your own?" An-
thony demanded. "I can't promise
not to see you, Ellen, for I couldn't
keep that promise, you know I
couldn't. I'd be running over here
the way I always do. Ellen, you've
got to give me your answer now."

"Then it's — no, Anthony," Ellen said
quietly enough for all the turmoil in
her heart.

He looked at her without speaking,
then turned abruptly and left. But
that evening he called her.

I'M sorry about today," he said con-
' tritely. "I'll see you tomorrow and
we'll talk things over. And Ellen,
I've thought of a hundred new argu-
ments that you couldn't possibly find
answers for. But you already know
the most important one. I love you."

Ellen turned away from the tele-
phone with a heavy heart.

She couldn't deny her love of An-
thony, try as she would to call it
infatuation or excitement or any
other fleeting, frivolous word. For it
was real, this love, as real as food
and warmth and the solid ground
under her feet. She knew that, even
as she knew she could not accept it, no
matter how important it was to her.
For she couldn't take her own happi-
ness at the risk of her children's.

After the children were in bed she
walked down to the railroad station
where she knew she could get out-of-
town papers and came back with a
bundle of them under her arm. She
went through the Help Wanted
columns systematically, clipping the
ones of the positions she felt she
might be able to fill. Then she saw
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her, the terse little ad that asked for
a practical nurse.

She looked at the address, New-
River City, a large town some two
hundred miles distant. It would be
ridiculous to go there without any
assurance at all, for she couldn't draw
much money from the bank, only
enough for her immediate needs. She
glanced at the clock then and decided
it wasn't too late to telephone.

The voice that had answered her
had been cautious and tense but
Ellen hadn't thought of that then. If
it hadn't been for her agitation she
would never have gone on such a
slender chance as the promise of an
interview, but Ellen was snatching at
straws now in her desperation. The
next morning she had made her hur-
ried plans, trying to explain to Janey
and Mark that she would come back
again in a few days to get them and
left all the last minute instructions
she could think of for Hilda and Uncle
Josh who had promised to stay at the
tea room while she was gone. It
wouldn't take her more than a few
days to tell if she liked the job, pro-
vided she could get it at all. Then
would be time enough for the children
to join her.

AND now this. Ellen looked around
*» the room again. She felt she had
to force herself to see it as any other
room, with ordinary tables and chairs,
and windows, not as that distorted
nightmare room her fancy was pic-
turing it. And somehow it seemed
different now, less frightening. Then
the door opened and Miss Heth-
ers came in and again the room
took on that ominous portent. But
Ellen felt she could face it now. For
it wasn't some dread, unseen force
that haunted that room but a living
thing, evil and bitter but human for
all that. For as the housekeeper's
hard eyes looked at her, Ellen knew
it was Miss Hethers who had made
that room her own.

"Mr. Gaines will see you now," she
said. "Come this way, please."

Ellen didn't know what she had ex-
pected Mr. Gaines would be like, she
only knew that as he crossed the
floor to greet her in the upstairs
study, a warm flood of reassurance
swept through her. Here was a man
she knew could be trusted, this quiet
man in the late thirties with his
grave voice and the sad eyes his smile
left untouched.

"I understand you have no refer-
ences," he said, after he had seated
her in the chair beside his desk. "But
maybe you'll tell me just what your
experience has been."

Ellen felt her confidence mounting
as she told him about her former
work at the Health Center, about the

epidemics she had helped Anthony
fight, about the babies she had helped
usher into the world and the man
looking at her smiled again.

"I like you, Mrs. Brown," he said
slowly. "I'd like to have you stay,
but I feel I must tell you the position
has certain drawbacks. You see, it
isn't the nursing so much as . . .
other things, a need for eternal cau-
tion, watching. It's difficult to tell you
all this, even though I've had to im-
press it on all my wife's nurses and
I feel I must tell you there have been
many, as no one seems able to stand
the strain long. My wife is not really
ill. You see, she was in an automobile
accident a few years ago and . . ."

SUDDENLY he stopped as they heard
someone outside the door and Ellen
saw him stiffen as if he were bracing
himself against a coming ordeal. And
Ellen, too, felt as if she had to
strengthen herself against the thing
that was coming when she heard a
woman's voice behind her. For she
had never heard a voice like that be-
fore. It had no timbre or tone or ring
and it sounded like a lament coming
from a grave, even though her words
were commonplace enough.

"You're home early, Keith."

"Yes, I had an appointment to see
Mrs. Brown," the man's voice sounded
vital and reassuring after that other
listless one. "I want you to meet her,
Grace. If ... if she will accept the
position, she will be your new nurse."

Ellen felt the other woman hesi-
tating behind her, then she moved
slowly into the room so that she was
facing her. There hadn't been any
preparation then for what she saw,
save that instinctive bracing when
Ellen had first heard her voice. But
somehow Ellen managed to keep her
eyes steadily on the other woman's
face, to control the quick horror that
came at the sight of it.

For she had never seen a woman
who looked as Grace Gaines looked,
with her mouth distorted so gro-
tesquely by the scars that criss-
crossed her face, twisting even the
contours of it and leaving only her
eyes untouched.

"But I told you I didn't want an-
other nurse, Keith," she said slowly.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Brown, but I prefer
complete privacy where my home is
concerned." And then without an-
other word she left the room.

"Please don't be upset, Mr. Gaines,"
Ellen said. "I understand how things
are and . . ."

"I'd like you to stay," he said, look-
ing at her intently. "If you feel that
you can cope with the situation. Now
you see how it is. My wife resents
women, particularly attractive ones.
Miss Hethers is the only person who

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RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

has been able to gain her confidence
at all."

Ellen hesitated. It would be diffi-
cult, she knew that, particularly diffi-
cult since Grace Gaines so obviously
did not want her there. But in spite
of the other woman's hostile attitude,
she had stirred Ellen's sympathy.

"It would mean so much to me, if
you do stay," Keith Gaines went on.
"I was grateful for the way you
acted just now, not turning away or
showing horror the way people do
when they first meet her. You see,
it's particularly difficult for Grace to
have had this thing happen to her.
She was a very beautiful woman
once and now ... Of course, you've
noticed the absence of mirrors here
and the curtained windows. Grace in-
sists on keeping them that way so
there can't even be a chance reflec-
tion in the glass to remind her of
what she used to be."

All Ellen's hesitation was gone
then. Keith Gaines was looking at
her as if it were his own life he was
pleading for. He loved his wife still,
devotedly, tenderly. Ellen knew that
from the gratitude in his eyes when
she told him she would stay.

OVER exhaustion forced Ellen to
sleep that night, but there was no
way to shut out the dreams which
flashed across her consciousness and
made her turn away from their vivid-
ness. Mostly it was Anthony, his voice
low and tense, pleading. Almost she
cried out once, for she was in An-
thony's arms and he was kissing her
goodbye. Then she was alone, far out
on a barren plain bathed in milky
moonlight and there were no signs to
tell her in which direction she should
go. Desolation swept over her.

Ellen awoke and for a moment she
only knew that she was in a strange
room. Then realization flooded into
her mind. It was true, she had really
left, had really run away from An-
thony and had come here to this dis-
tant city, to this dark, curtained house
and had promised to nurse Grace
Gaines. Because Ellen knew that
every waking moment would be full
of the memory of Anthony, she must
force herself to welcome this new
task. The pain of leaving Anthony, of
fleeing from his love, of denying what
was in her heart, might slowly recede
before the effort to help Grace Gaines
find her way back into a world of
reality.

But it was the hardest task Ellen
had ever set herself. Miss Hethers
was openly hostile and Grace Gaines
accepted her with a stony reserve
that Ellen could not break down,
try as she would. And it wasn't
long before Ellen realized why there
was a need for a nurse to be in
that house, for in losing her beauty,
Grace Gaines had lost her desire to
live, too. Ellen was there to see that
she would not give into a sudden,
mad impulse to take her own life.

It was the day Ellen picked some
zinnias and marigolds in the garden
and brought them into the house that
she first realized she could influence
her patient. For she had come into
the room and gone swiftly to the
huge vase and stood there staring
down at the flowers.

"I don't want them here," Grace
had said then.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Gaines," Ellen
said quickly. "I didn't know you were
allergic to flowers."

"I'm not allergic to them," Grace
said slowly. "It s just that . . ."

JULY, 1941

She couldn't go on. And Ellen knew
it was because she was ashamed to
admit that loveliness even in a flower
disturbed her.

"But they're so beautiful," Ellen
said quickly, feeling it was much bet-
ter to drag the resentment into the
open. "Don't you think so?"

For a moment Grace looked at her,
then her smile twisted in her tortured
face and her hand went out and
touched one of the flowers.

"Yes," she whispered. She turned to
go but when she reached the door she
stopped and after a moment walked
slowly back into the room again.
"I . . . always liked to wear flowers,"
she said uncertainly. "Particularly
camellias, those dark pink ones. Keith
liked to see them in my hair. But
now . . . can you imagine me with
flowers?"

"Yes, I can, Mrs. Gaines," Ellen said
quickly. "You seem the type of
woman who would fill her house with
them all the time."

"I used to," Grace Gaines said. Then
suddenly she laughed. "It's pretty
awful feeling jealous of a flower, isn't
it? But I am. You knew that, didn't
you?" And suddenly it was as if a
bond had taken the place of the old
resentment as they laughed together.

IF only, Ellen thought later, she
' could break down all those dark
inhibitions that had come to Grace
Gaines, get her interested in things
again, perfumes, clothes, all the little
luxuries which mean so much to the
normal woman. But she would have
to go about it carefully.

The next day Ellen bought herself
a dress and taking it with her from
the store ran up to her patient as if
it was the most natural thing in the
world to show it to her friend.

"I saw one that would look beauti-
ful with your hair and eyes," Ellen
went on enthusiastically. "Couldn't
we have the store send it out on ap-
proval and . . ."

"Oh, no," Grace Gaines protested
quickly. "What difference would
clothes make to me? I can't bear to
think of them."

"I had a friend who felt that way,"
Ellen laughed. "But she had been
eating too many chocolate eclairs and
her figure was somewhere in the size
forties. But you have such a lovely
figure. Just the sort of one clothes
look so well on. I'm afraid I would
spend everything I could on clothes
if I had a figure like yours. Please,"
she went on quickly before Grace
could refuse. "You can send it back
if you don't like it."

Mrs. Gaines hesitated just a mo-
ment. Then she laughed. "I never
knew a woman it was so difficult to
say no to," she said.

But Ellen knew she was really ex-
cited about something at last and
when the dress was delivered the next
morning and Ellen helped her put it
on, she stood for a long time looking
down on it, her fingers smoothing
down the soft silk. And when she
made no move to take it off again
Ellen felt as if her battle was almost
won.

But that was before Miss Hethers
came into the room.

"Do you like it?" Grace asked
eagerly.

"It's well, it's rather conspicuous,
isn't it?" the other woman said in her
flat voice and suddenly the eager light
was gone from Grace Gaines' eyes.
For there was no mistaking the house-
keeper's meaning, with her eyes fixed

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steadily on the scarred face.

"I suppose it is," she said dully. And
Ellen forced herself not to protest as
she ripped it off and thrust it into the
housekeeper's arms. "Here, you t take
it. I never want to see it again.

Hethers' eyes looked triumphant
as she left the room, and Ellen's eyes
blazed as she looked after her. Then
she turned to Mrs. Gaines.

"Don't you see what she is doing?
she asked then. "Don't you see she
deliberately says things like that to
get things away from you?"

"And I was beginning to think you
were my friend!" Grace Gaines
looked at her resentfully. "What a
fool I am. I should have known
Hethers is the only real friend I have
in the world. You made me buy that
dress so I'd look ridiculous, didn t
you? So that Keith would see the
contrast between us. Funny, isn't it?
I didn't believe Hethers when she told
me you were in love with him, that
you were trying to take him away
from me."

Ellen gasped at the accusation—
but the first flash of resentment gave
way to the realization of what Grace
Gaines must have suffered in her life
to make such thoughts possible. And
when she answered it was in a steady
quiet voice.

"I couldn't do that even if I wanted
to," she said slowly. "You see, your
husband happens to be in love with
you."

"With me?" Grace Gaines laughed
bitterly. "Oh, he was once, but that's
over now. Every morning I wake
with just one thought in my mind,
wondering if this is the day he is
going to tell me he's leaving me."

"Hethers has put that thought in
your mind, too, hasn't she?" Ellen
asked. "Don't you see she's only tried
to dominate you so that she can keep
complete control of this house? Don't
you see what she's done to it and to
you, covering everything with her
bitterness? But of course, you can't
blame her, she isn't as lucky as you've
been."

"Lucky! How can you call me
lucky?"

"How could I call you anything
else?" Ellen said quietly. "You have
a husband who adores you in spite of
what you think, you have a home of
your own, security, all the things a
poor frustrated woman like Miss
Hethers has never had. Naturally she
envies you."

"You can stand there looking at me
and say that?" Grace Gaines said.
"Seeing my face . . . Oh, you don't
know what it is to be the way I am,
to be afraid of everything, the world,
the people in it, to be shut out of
everything . . . everything."

"It's you who've locked the doors
against the world," Ellen sad quietly.
"You haven't given people a chance
to show you how little the things you
are afraid of really mean. I never
knew you before and yet I wanted to
be friends with you from the begin-
ning. I liked you."

"And my face didn't horrify you?"

"Of course it didn't," Ellen said
simply. "It was the real you I liked.
The you I saw in your eyes."

"If only I could believe that," Grace
Gaines said slowly. "If only I could."

Ellen thought then that this strange
battle of wills might end victoriously.
For there had been hope in the
woman's eyes and they had been
beautiful again for that brief moment.

Walking down the quiet, dusty
street that afternoon, Ellen's heart

raced with hope and fear and a
mad impulse to deny the thought that
had come to her. Why hadn't she
thought of it before? Ellen had seen
some of them, coming to the Health
Center at Simpsonville, hopeless, de-
spairing. She remembered, too, their
leaving, the disfigurements covered
through the skill of facial surgery, all
their bitterness gone, as though it had
been wiped clean from their souls.

An operation on Grace Gaines' face!
Then every other thought was crowded
from Ellen's mind. For at the same
split second had come the other reali-
zation. There was only one man in
that part of the country who could
perform such an operation. Anthony.
Doctor Anthony Loring. And there
was only one who could persuade
Grace Gaines to let Anthony perform
the operation. Herself!

THAT night, before Ellen's courage
I could be scattered and dissipated by
delay, she went to Grace Gaines.

"Has anyone ever suggested an
operation?" Ellen asked.

"It's no use," Grace Gaines shook
her head. "Keith took me to the best
specialists in the country right after
it happened. But they all refused.
They were afraid my heart wouldn't
stand the shock of the anaesthetic.
Keith wouldn't allow it."

"But that was three years ago,"
Ellen protested. "It might be all right
now."

"Why should it be?" Grace Gaines
said listlessly.

"I know a doctor," Ellen began,
forcing the words against her wild
desire to stop, knowing that with
each word her tiny chance of forget-
ting Anthony was being destroyed.
"Anthony Loring. The most skillful
surgeon I've ever known."

There was no sign of interest, in
her patient's response. "Doctor Lor-
ing?"

"I've seen him perform operations
much more difficult than this would
be," Ellen continued. "You've got to
let me call him."

Waiting in the silence that followed,
Ellen prayed. But when Grace Gaines
spoke, she nodded her head. "All
right, Ellen. It can't hurt to have him
examine me."

Ellen called the same hour. She
gave the operator the number she
knew so well, the number that would
summon a voice that Ellen longed to
hear above all else in the world and
yet feared most of all to listen to.

She heard, "Health Center, Doctor
Loring speaking." And then she was
speaking to him, telling him where
she was.

"Ellen!" There was elation, excite-
ment in his voice now. "You've called.
Oh, Ellen," Anthony said, "I've waited
so long to hear. So long."

There were tears in Ellen's eyes.
"Anthony, I can't tell you everything
now, but you must come to New River
City. Keith Gaines' home. Anyone
can tell you where to find it."

"I'll be there by morning." What
could she say to destroy the jubila-
tion in his voice?

"Anthony, I'm not asking you to
come to see me," Ellen said. But An-
thony was talking again, not listen-
ing, saying, "Ellen, don't go away this
time. Promise me you'll be there."

"I — I promise," Ellen said. It was
an effort to place the telephone re-
ceiver back in its cradle.

It was a brilliant, cool morning.
Ellen stood at the door waiting for
the hum of a car motor that she would

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recognize. But when Anthony drove
up she had turned back to the dining
room to sit with Grace Gaines. The
doorbell rasped in muffled tones back
of the kitchen door.

"I'll go," Ellen said quickly, inter-
cepting Hethers. She was in Anthony's
arms before she could speak to him,
she was kissing him as she choked
back her tears and her words of ex-
planation. It was this moment of
holding him close to her that brought
crystal clear the complete realization
of the depth of her love. If she ever
let him go now, all meaning of life
must go with him.

"Ellen," Anthony said, his lips
against her forehead.

She told him, standing there, why
she had called, told him, too, why she
had left him without a word so many
weeks ago. And as he understood, his
arms dropped to his sides and his face
assumed a rigid control that had no
other emotion than repressed anger.

"So I'm here on professional busi-
ness," he said and Ellen had to nod
her head, unable to say "Yes."

He laughed, shortly. "I should have
known. When you called I forgot I
was a doctor and remembered only
that I was the man who loved you."

"Anthony!" Ellen cried. "Don't. I
couldn't help it. I had to call you."

"Ellen," Grace Gaines called from
the dining room. "Who's there?"

"The doctor," Ellen replied. "He's
here — to see you."

What other construction could An-
thony put on Ellen's words? How
could he think anything but that she
did not really care for him and was
merely using his love for her own
purposes? Be sure to read, the thrill-
ingly dramatic conclusion of Young
Widder Brown in the August Radio
Mirror, at your news stand June 25.

What Do You Want to Say?

(Continued from page 3)

Fifth

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Facing the Music

(Continued from page 39)

himself in the musical world, first as
a competent violinist in the Para-
mount theater pit band, and then as a
radio orchestra leader, he immediately
began his unselfish plan to mould
Harry's career.

The boy didn't fail his brother. He
first attracted attention on the air
with a solid, swing quintette that
played garishly titled but always
original tunes Ray composed. Some
of them were "Twilight in Tur-
key," "Powerhouse," "Toy Trumpet,"
"Christmas Night In Harlem," "Huck-
leberry Duck."

People asked him how in the world
he dreamed up such wild titles.

"Maybe I ought to be psycho-
analyzed but you see I like to write
about strange things. Anyway I found
the novelty tunes caught on. I wrote
forty ballads but no one paid any at-
tention to them."

Although some say Ray acts ec-
centric, he really is a practical person.
Wise brother Mark drummed that
into him years ago. That is why he
organized a regular dance orchestra
about a year ago.

|"~\ ANCE bands provide a substantial
L-' living," he pointed out, "and give
you an opportunity to experiment
with less commercial ideas."

Ray's band, featuring singers Clyde
Burke, Gloria Hart and a fine set of
swing and sweet instrumentalists, is
currently clicking on Columbia rec-
ords, in theaters, one-night stands and
college proms.

His brother's career now success-
fully launched, Mark is now concen-
trating exclusively on his own. He is
busy conducting three top CBS shows,
The Hit Parade, We, The People, and
the Helen Hayes series, building a
dance band for recording work and
special affairs, and planning a con-
temporary American music concert to
be held in Carnegie Hall next Fall.

Off the bandstand, Mark has little
time for himself. His wife died sev-
eral years ago and the dual role of
daddy-mother to three children,
Morton, 15, Elaine, 13, and Sandra, 7,
is an exhausting one. Mark bought a
fourteen-room estate in Kenilworth,
L. I., and lives there with the chil-
dren. In town he has a large studio
apartment just around the corner
from CBS.

When he gets time to relax he sails
a forty-six-foot yawl.

"I don't know much about boats,"
he told me, "But I saw Hepburn in
'The Philadelphia Story' and I think
my boat is yar too."

OFF THE RECORD
Some Like It Sweet:

Bing Crosby: "Dolores" and "De
Camptown Races" (Decca 3644). A
rhythmic alliance with the Merry Macs
makes for a record standout. Bing does
a brace of tunes from his new film
"Road to Zanzibar" (Decca 3636-3637)
but they all have a familiar ring.

Kay Kyser: "They Met in Rio" and
"I Yi, Yi, Yi, Yi" (Columbia 36003).
Both from Zanuck's technicolor tribute
to South America. If you insist on the
original, get Carmen Miranda's colorful
Decca album which has tunes from the
picture.

Leo Reisman: "Jenny" and "This Is
New" (Victor 27340). From "Lady In
The Dark," the biggest musical hit
Broadway has seen in generations. The
Kurt Weill-Ira Gershwin score is joy to
anyone's ears. If you want a complete
set of tunes buy Gertrude Lawrence's
glamorous Victor album or Hildegarde's
equally smart chore for Decca.
• Dick Jurgens: "My Sister and I" and
"Pardon Me For Falling In Love"
(Okeh 6094). Here's a sentimental
ballad based on a Dutch refugee boy's
diary, backed by a danceable tune.

Glenn Miller: "Stone's Throw From
Heaven" and "I Dreamt I Dwelt In
Harlem" (Bluebird 11063). Nicely bal-
anced and up to the Miller standard.

Guy Lombardo: "The Band Played
On" and "You Stepped Out Of a
Dream" (Decca 3675). This old tune
was nostalgically revived in Jimmy
Cagney's "Strawberry Blonde." Now
Lombardo revives it and puts a brand
new tune on the reverse. Senti-
mentalists will like it.

Freddy Martin: "Corn Silk" and "Too
Beautiful to Last" (Bluebird 11050).
This band is still tops for smooth
tempos.

Some Like It Swing:

Woody Herman: "Blue Flame" and
"Fur Trappers Ball" (Decca 3643).
Woody couples his theme with a howl-
ing swing session.

Harry James: "Eli-Eli" and "A Lit-
tle Bit of Heaven" (Columbia 35979).
Here's something unusual for listening
purposes. Stirring trumpet work.

Raymond Scott: "Evening Star" and
"Blues My Girl Friend Taught Me"
(Columbia 35980). Evidence that this
year-old band contains some fine in-
strumentalists.

Lionel Hampton: "Open House" and
"Bogo Joe" (Victor 27341). This cor-
ner's swing favorite of the month.
Hampton's vibraharp work is tops.

S^M&Zi

SAMMIE HILL — (and that's not a misprint, it's really her name)
who plays Casino on NBC's serial, Home of the Brave. Many proud
fathers have been disappointed because their heirs turned out to be
heiresses, but few have ever taken matters in hand like Samuel J.
Hill, Sammie's father. He already had a Virginia, an Ann, and a
Nancy when Sammie was born, and his heart was set on a boy. But
it was another girl, so Samuel J. consoled himself by naming the
infant Sammie Jane, after himself — the Jane being the nearest
feminine approach to his own middle name of Jones. Sammie does
all right for herself on the air, so her masculine name can't be a
handicap. She had only two radio jobs before her present role.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Are Heroes Born or Made?

Lindbergh

andw

The reception Lindbergh received upon his return from his
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What has happened since? Did Lindbergh prove equal to
the greatness thrust upon him?

Does he still hold the affection of the public?

Is his lovely lady still as happy as ever at the choice she
made?

You have probably asked yourself these and many other
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Superman in Radio

(Continued from page 40)

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Up . . . UP . . . and away — "

Red cape streaming in the night
wind, Superman winged his way
through the darkness, convinced he
had hit on the solution to the mys-
terious explosion. Five minutes later,
as Clark Kent, he sat talking to the
Melville Chief of Police at head-
quarters. Wasting no time, he laid one
of the four inch cylinders on the
Chief's desk and pried off the top. He
picked up an empty ash tray and
gently poured into it a tiny part of the
contents of the cylinder. It was a thin
grayish-black powder. First warning
the officer to stand far back, Kent
struck a match and dropped it in the
tray. There was a flash and a roar and
the room shook with the explosion.

When the smoke cleared, Kent
turned excitedly to his companion:

"Chief, now you know. There's
enough of this powder in each of
these metal cylinders to blow a
battleship apart. It's the most power-
ful explosive I've ever seen — and Hol-
bein was packing it inside dolls !"

"But why, Kent— why?"

"That's what we have to find out —
immediately. That explosion in the
factory must have been caused by
someone's setting off this stuff acci-
dentally. Chief, wait for me here. I've
another little tour of inspection."

Once outside, Clark Kent disap-
peared and again, his powerful figure
shrouded in protective darkness,
Superman sped to Holbein's house.
He landed lightly in the factory
owner's front yard and looked around.
The house lay in total darkness.
Creeping up the steps, Superman tried
the door. It was locked but that
meant nothing to the Man of Steel.
Bracing himself, he pressed his shoul-
der hard against it. Cracking and
splintering, the door burst open. But
the house was empty. It echoed and
re-echoed as Superman called in vain
for Lois Lane. He was about to give
up when he noticed something:

"Hold on — there's something writ-
ten on the table — written with a lip-
stick—'AM ON AN ISLAND.' She left
that message for me — but what
island?"

Desperately hoping that the Police
Chief might give him some clue, he
hurried back to headquarters. The
officer was eager to cooperate. Within
an hour, he was able to assemble
priceless information: the airport re-
ported that Holbein's private plane
had disappeared. A Coast Guard had
seen it, minutes later, heading out
toward the small ocean island owned
by the doll manufacturer.

Superman needed no more. Outside,
safe from curious eyes, he sprang
high into the air. With the speed of
a whistling bullet, he cut through the
fog-bound night. But even as he
neared the ocean hideaway, Hans
Holbein and his helper, Joe, safe on
their island, listened to a police call
on a powerful short-wave radio —

"Marine Division 421, calling all
Coast Guard stations and police boats
— reported missing — Lois Lane —
L-A-N-E— height, five feet four-
weight, one hundred and ten pounds —
black hair, brown eyes — watch all
fishing boats and private planes — I
will repeat. . . ."

Joe snapped the radio off: "Boss,
we gotta get rid of that girl and I
know how to do it. The barometer's

fallin' — that means a storm comin'
up — the tide's runnin' out. Come on —
we'll put her in a rowboat an' let her
go — out to sea."

Struggling helplessly, Lois fought
the two men as they picked her up
and carried her out to the beach.
Bound tightly, she lay stretched out
on the bottom of the small rowboat as
they set it adrift. Moment by moment,
the high wind and fast-ebbing tide
carried the boat farther out to sea.

Long minutes later Superman found
an opening in the low, murky ceiling
of the sky. As he looked down, he
exclaimed involuntarily:

"Good heavens — there's a boat — a
small rowboat — and someone's in it.
Look, that wave almost swamped it!
I guess I'd better get down there and
investigate."

Fearlessly, he dove deep into the
angry waters and began swimming —
"That wave capsized the boat — I may
not be able to find whoever was in
it— not in this sea— faster— FASTER
— Ahi Here's the boat — but there's no
sign of a human being — wait — what's
that bobbing up ahead? It's a woman !

"Got her! Good heavens — It's Lois —
Lois Lane — half drowned! Well, Mr.
Holbein, we'll settle with you!"

Like a giant bird, the unconscious
form of Lois Lane in his arms, Super-
man streaked for the island. De-
positing her gently on the sand, he
ran toward the small, ramshackle
shack. But Holbein and Joe had heard
him come. When Superman smashed
through the door, the doll man was
standing determinedly beside an odd-
looking cabinet. One hand held a
giant electric switch. Voice high with
rage and a mad hysteria, Holbein
shouted at his pursuer:

"Come no nearer — don't touch me !
You have stopped a great work. With
my powder I might some day have
ruled the universe! One pound of it
would level a great city! I would have
ruled the land and ruled the sea!

"But now it is too late. And so, we
shall die together. You see this
switch. Yes, I am prepared — I realized
some day an accident might happen —
like the explosion in my factory — an
accident that would put the police on
my trail — and so I prepared. Buried
deep in the sand — all over the island —
are hundreds of pounds of my ex-
plosive—electrical wires lead to this
switch. I will throw it — and this
island and you and I and Joe will
blow up into a million fragments and
disappear into the sea!"

His laughter rose maniacally and
then, before even Superman could
reach him, the hands of the madman
threw the switch. But just as the first
rumbles of the explosion began,
Superman, moving with a speed
matching that of light, was in the
open and beside the still unconscious
Lois. As he snatched her up, the
ground opened beneath them. Shield-
ing her from the rock fragments that
bounded harmlessly off him, Super-
man quickly leaped into the air. High
above, he turned to look back in time
to see the island and the mad owner
and his henchman disappear under
the sea.

Don't jail to get the August issue of
Radio Mirror and read another thrill-
ing episode in the life of Superman,
living symbol of Justice, who
triumphs against evil!

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

What's New From Coast to
Coast

(Continued from page 7)

sonally at benefits for patriotic, relief
and welfare agencies, for which he
is in great demand. "God Bless
America" is a must on these occasions,
and Roger has probably sung it more
times than any other radio star except
Kate Smith.

Roger's voice was trained by sev-
eral well-known teachers, but he
taught himself stage presence by
doing door-to-door selling for his
family's sign and printing business.
He's still their star salesman.

Radio sets, mechanical gadgets and
novelty lamps are Roger's hobby.
Scattered through his house are ten
radio sets, all in working condition,
some of them dating back to 1921.
He's married, and is the father of a
year-old son.

SALT LAKE CITY— A welcome
newcomer to Salt Lake's station
KDYL is Edwin Oliver Letson, who
took no time at all to have everyone
calling him just plain Ed. He's both
a singer and a newscaster, and equally
good at either job.

ED got into radio the long way
around. He was born in Enid, Okla-
homa, and graduated with the class
of 1927 from the University of Ne-
braska. He always loved to sing, and
had a fine tenor voice, but after col-
lege he knew it could be better, so
he went to New York and studied
music there. His lessons led to en-
gagements with the Radio City Music
Hall chorus and on the Rudy Vallee
hour. But Ed was practical, and knew
he couldn't just go on studying music
without earning money too. Besides,
he wanted to get married.

So when funds ran low and pros-
pects in New York were bleak, he
returned to Oklahoma and took up
banking. For ten years he worked,
first in a bank and later as bank ex-
aminer, hoping for the day when he
could quit and earn his living by
singing. One day in 1936 he heard
about an announcer's job that was
open on a station in Hutchison,
Kansas, and although he wasn't an
announcer, he applied under the
name of Eddie Oliver, and was hired.

Two years later station KFAB in
Lincoln, Nebraska, asked him to work
for them, and by this time Ed thought
he was secure enough in his new pro-
fession to drop the Eddie Oliver name
and use his real one. Last January
KDYL wanted a good announcer who
could also sing, and persuaded Ed to
pack up and move west to the banks
of the Great Salt Lake. Music lovers
welcomed a tenor with such a wide
tonal range, and the thousands of
listeners to newscasts admired his
smooth, friendly type of delivery, so
different from many announcers'
harsh bark.

Ed's happily married to the girl he
met in college, and they have two
children, Sydney, 12, and Frank, 8.
Sydney says she's going to be an
artist, but Frank feels that he may
take up radio — 'way up, because he
wants to be an aviator as well. Ed is
a member of the Episcopal Church,
where he finds time to be a soloist in
the choir.

JULY, 1941

INTERNAL BATHS END
YEARS OF DISTRESS

Baffled at 47 — Feels Like a Young Man at 77

Imagine how thrilling it must be for a man, feeling half-sick, half-alive for years,

suddenly to find himself restored to new happiness and vitality. How wonderful

he must feel to realize at last he may be able to say good-bye to the headaches,

biliousness, sluggishness, that all-in feeling, due to chronic constipation suffered

through many years.

But such a man was Leopold Aul, and

as explained in his own words: "One day

when I was feeling especially bad and

as nervous as a cat, I met an old friend

of mine. He noticed how fagged out I

looked and how rapidly I seemed to be

aging. 'Why don't you take Internal

Baths?' he asked, 'they did wonders

for me.'"

What Is An Internal
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Thereupon Mr. Aul began investi-
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of its whole foul mass; the putre-
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washed away. Often the relief is
immense — often a new sense of
vigor and well-being sweeps over
you.

Naturally, Mr. Aul did buy a
J.B.L. Cascade. It proved a turning
point in his life. Gone, according
to his testimony, was the worry and
distress that had hitherto over-
shadowed his whole life, sapped his
ambition.

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Leopold Aul

1505 Bushwick Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y.

I wouid like to thank you kindly for your letter of

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case.

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Mrs. Oliver Roylance

R. D. No. 1, Waterford, N. Y.

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How We Met

homely, attractive face.

"What do you think? Beautiful
music, a beautiful girl in my arms.
What more could any man ask for?"

I blushed. It was the first time any
man had ever said anything of that
kind to me, and I didn't know how
to answer. "You don't really mean
that," I murmured.

He stopped smiling. "Yes," he said
slowly, "I do. You're the most beau-
tiful girl I've ever met. And I never
thought I'd be saying that to . . . my
best friend's fiancee."

"Hal — " I wanted to tell him about
my deception now, but the words
wouldn't come. At last I stammered,
"But Hal, I don't belong to Jerry.
I'm not his fiancee!"

His face hardened. "Then Jerry's
due for an awful let-down. He cer-
tainly thinks you do. And as far as
I'm concerned, that's all that counts."

Desperately, I leaned across the
table.

"Hal, there's something I have to
tell you."

"Never mind, let's forget it." His
tone had become sharp and curt.

He pushed his chair back. I tried
to hold him. "Please listen. Earlier
tonight, you made a mistake — "

" — and since I've been holding you
in my arms, I've come darn near
making another. Come on, let's get
out of here."

He got up, stepped quickly around
and helped me up. My coach-and-
four so quickly had turned back into
a pumpkin ! Silently, I followed him
out and waited while he picked up
our wraps. I sat huddled in a corner
of the seat during the drive home.
The hard, white look on Hal's face
settled more deeply. Not once did he
speak or look at me. I wondered if
the happiness I had felt sing in me for
so short a time was worth this misery.

(Continued from page 21)

I was lost. I couldn't blame Hal, but
each time I began an explanation the
words choked in my throat.

Then we were in front of our house.
Hal walked with me up to the porch.
I fumbled with my key, and despair-
ingly looked up at Hal:

"Well, here we are."

His set features didn't relax.

"Yeah — here we are."

I couldn't let him go. I had to find
some chink in his armor.

"Hal, I want to . . ."

But he wouldn't let me finish.

"I know. You want to thank me for
a very lovely evening. Well, there's
no need to lie about it. Grace, if
there's anything I despise it's a liar
and a cheat.

"There aren't many men around like
Jerry, and he hates a cheat as much
as I do. Just remember that. Now
you'd better go inside before I say
anything else I'm sorry for."

The door was open. How could I
answer him? Cinderella had waited
too long.

"I don't suppose there'd be any use
in my explaining now?" And I won-
dered if he had noticed the tears in
my voice. But he had already started
down the walk.

"Not the slightest. Good night."

I stood still and the heavens and
the earth seemed to swim into each
other. He was going and I was doing
nothing to stop him. But I could never
retreat back into the dull, clay-
touched world I had known. Hal was
life and love and escape and I was
losing him. I threw away every re-
straining impulse. Pleadingly, I called
after him:

"Hal, wait a minute. Come back,
please."

Still stubborn, still unbending, his
gruff reply gave me no encourage-
ment:

ANSWERS TO "ARE YOU REALLY IN LOVE?"

Give yourself ten points for each
the correct ones given here. The

1. No. (If you have a sense of strain, of not
being entirely at ease with him, there's
something wrong. He may have dazzled
you — but there's no real dent in your
heart!)

2. No.

3. Yes. (Love does something to your looks
that even strangers notice!)

4. (a) Yes. (b) No.

5. No. (When you're really in love you can't
concentrate.)

6. No.

7. (a) Yes. (You want to share such knowl-
edge with him.)

(bj No. (If you tell him at all it will be
in an off-hand way — because First Love
doesn't seem important now.)
(c) Yes.

8. Yes. (If there's no thrill in just being with
him, unless there is Ardent Woo — it's in-
fatuation.)
Yes!

(a) Yes.
Yes!

(a) Yes.
No.
(a) Yes

10.

I I,

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

(b) No.
(b) No.

(b) No.
No. (You're too excited . . . too many
things to think over.)
(a) Yes. (Because you have to con-

of your answers that corresponds to
n find your own "love rating" below.

sider what he likes.)
(b) No.

17. Yes. (Girls in love get a sudden Do-
mestic Eye.)

18. (a) Yes. (That's the way Love is . . .)
(b) No.

19. No. (If a girl is not playing at being
in love, her dreams become decidedly
practical.)

20. Yes. (You feel generous towards the
whole world!)

21. (a) No. (b) No. (Sure sign he bores
you.)

22. Yes.

23. Yes. (And how!)

24. (a) Yes. (b) No.

25. No! (You're too tingly and alive to
wake up feeling your everyday self.)

The highest possible score is 350. If you
have it, that is Love. Grade A and undiluted!

If your score is between:
320 and 350... Call it "L-o-v-e."
300 and 320 ... Romance — Grade B.
250 and 300. ... Passing fancy.
200 and 250... Very passingl
100 and 200. . . A breezy whim.

0 and 100... Skip it — and start looking
around again!

"What do you want?"

But I wouldn't stop now, "I can't
let you go away like this, believing
what you do . . ."

"You lied to me about Jerry and
yourself, didn't you?"

Blindly, I went on. "Yes, but . . ."

Again he stopped me. "That's all
I wanted to know."

L_j E was back on the porch beside me.
' ' I faced him squarely and placed
my hands, imploringly, on his arms.
The moon held us in an eerie sort of
spotlight and the street was wrapped
in the heavy silence of sleep. And I,
driven by a mass of mixed, swirling
emotions, fear and love and despera-
tion, held tight to the man who
thought I was a liar and a cheat. But
I had felt his arms tremble when I
touched them.

He must have seen the longing in
my eyes, he must have felt the tingle,
the anticipation in my fingertips be-
cause, suddenly, he bent low —

"Darling, darling — here's what I've
been wanting to do ever since I first
held you in my arms — "

He kissed me. His lips were hard
and unyielding but they burned deep
into mine and time stopped for me.
How long he held me I do not know.
I thought I had won, but I was
wrong. I opened my eyes. The moon
was still there. The street still slept.
But Hal's face was tight and bitter
with fury.

"Well, are you satisfied now?" He
bit out the words grimly. "You suc-
ceeded in proving that we're both a
couple of cheats."

Stricken and wordless, I waited for
him to go on. But before he could,
the half-open door swung wide. It
was Grace, and her smile told me that
she had seen me in Hal's arms.

"Nice going, children."

Hal was embarrassed and, fum-
blingly, tried to apologize.

"Sis," I stammered out, "we didn't
see you . . ."

"How could you? You were so
wrapped up in each other."

Poor Hal, he was so worried that
my sister might get the wrong impres-
sion about me! "Miss Anderson, I
know what you think but that kiss
was my own idea. It wasn't Grace's
fault at all."

Grace's eyes were wide with aston-
ishment. She looked unbelievingly
at Hal.

" 'Grace's fault?' Do you mean that
she hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

My heart danced. We'd make Hal
understand! I laughed and he turned
to look at me, bewildered, as I said:

"He wouldn't let me, Grace."

"Grace?" Now he was hopelessly
confused. He couldn't understand
why we were both giggling so shame-
lessly. "Say, will somebody please
set me straight?"

The masquerade, which had brought
me so close to disaster, was over. I
asked Grace to leave us. I had a lot
of explaining to do. As the door shut
behind her, I whispered:

"Well, Hal, in the first place, as
I've been trying to tell you all eve-
ning, I'm not Grace. I'm Jean — "

He didn't let me say any more. And
this time his lips were not hard and
unyielding. I had been afraid of love.
But I was afraid no more.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

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nn, Lovely Heroine of
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red by Elizabeth Reller

V Complete

tadtoffi^l-THE ROMANCE OF HELEN TRENT

See All Your Favorites

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HEARTS WILL SKIP., if your Smile is Right!

Smiles gain sparkle when gums
are healthy. Help keepyour gums
firmer with Ipana and Massage.

COMPLIMENTS and popularity— a sol-
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beauty they're yours to win and possess.
Just bring your smile to its sparkling best
and eyes and hearts will open to you!

Beauty, you know, is only smile deep.
A sparkling smile lights the plainest
face— lends it priceless charm. Without
one, the loveliest face is shadowed! Help

your smile. Never forget— a smile, to be
sparkling and attractive, depends largely
on firm, healthy gums.

If you see "pink" on your tooth brush
—make a date to see your dentist imme-
diately. You may not be in for serious
trouble— but let your dentist make the
decision.

Very likely he'll tell you your gums
are weak and tender because today's
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work and exercise. And, like thousands
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of Ipana Tooth Paste and massage."
Use Ipana and Massage

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but, with massage, it is especially de-
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Get an economical tube of Ipana
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A LOVELY SMILE IS MOST IMPORTANT TO BEAUTY!"

Beauty Experts of 23 out of 24 leading magazines agree

Yes, of the nation's foremost beauty editors, representing
24 leading magazines, 23 agreed that a sparkling smile is
a woman's most precious asset.

"Even a plain girl," they said, "takes on charm and
^•/ glamour if her smile is bright and lovely. No woman can

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TOOTH PASTE

AUGUST. 1941

AUGUST, 1941 VOL. 16. No. 4

Am ^^^_ nno teuevisioi*

MtRROR

ERNEST V. HEYN FRED R. SAMMIS

Executive Editor BELLE landesman. assistant editor Editor

CONTENTS

<t>Pecia/ Features

How Frances Langford Remade Her Beauty Pauline Swanson 10

A famous star is living proof that people can change
Stay Close to Me : 12

The story of a beautiful love
The Romance of Helen Trent John Baxter 14

A radio novel complete in this issue
Forever After Adele Whitely Fletcher 19

The thrilling romance of Ireene Wicker, the Singing Lady
Young Doctor Malone Norton Russell 20

Begin the radio drama of a doctor's marriage
The Goldbergs 24

Meet this lovable air family in living portraits
The Merry Morgan Man Sara Hamilton 29

He's radio's most beloved jester
Young Widder Brown Elizabeth B. Peterson 30

Ellen finds for herself and Anthony a promise of future happiness
The Bride's Bouquet 32

The story of a girl who became a rich man's wife
Flamingo Ed Anderson and Ted Grouya 36

Presenting Radio Mirror's song hit of the month
The Cooking Corner Suggests — Let's Eat Kate Smith 38

Recipes for happier meals
Superman in Radio 40

A favorite new hero in another exciting adventure
Molasses 'n' January Mort Lewis 45

As their gag writer knows them
Portrait of a Father 80

Edward G. Robinson — Model Parent

/Ic/ded /Itfracttons

What Do You Want To Say? 3

What's New From Coast to Coast Dan Senseney 4

Facing the Music Ken Alden 8

Inside Radio — The Radio Mirror Almanac 41

Strictly Personal Dr. Grace Gregory 60

•

ON THE COVER— Elizabeth Reller, star of Young Doctor Malone, heard on CBS

Sports ensemble through the courtesy of Bonwit Teller, N. Y.

Kodachrome by Charles P. Seawood

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR, published monthly by MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, INC., Washington and South Avenues Dunellen,
New Jersey. General Offices: 205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. Editorial and advertising offices: Chanin Building 122 East 42nd Street New
York. O. J. Elder, President; Haydock Miller. Secretary; Chas. H. Shattuck, Treasurer; Walter Hanlon, Advertising Director Chicago office 221
North LaSalle St.. C. H. Shattuck. Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Francisco. 420 Market Street. Hollywood: 7751 Sunset Blvd Lee Andrews.
Manager. Entered as second-class matter September 14, 1933, at the Post Office at Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of March 3 1879 Price
pel copy In United Slates and Canada 10c. Subscription price in United States and Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland $100 a year In Cuba
Mexico. Haiti, Dominican Republic, Spain and Possessions, and Central and South American countries, excepting British Honduras British Dutch
and French Guiana, .T1.50 a year; all other countries $2.50 a year. While Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings are submitted' at the 'owner's
risk, every effort will be made to return those found unavailable if accompanied by sufficient first-class postage, and explicit name and address
Contributors are especially advised to be sure to retain copies of their contributions; otherwise they are taking unnecessary risk Unaccepted letters
lor the "What Do You Want to Say?" department will not be returned, and we will not be responsible for any losses of such matter contributed
All submissions become the property of the magazine. (Member of Mac-hidden Women's Group.) The contents of this magazine mav not be
printed, either wholly or In part, without permission. Copyright, 1941. by the Macfadden Publications, Inc. Title trademark registered in U S
Patent Office. Printed In the 0. S. A. by Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N J regisierea in u. &.

* RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHHOR

FIRST

Why must all radio humor consist
of verbal custard pie throwing? When
I was very young, I used to think I
was pretty witty when I addressed my
friends as "Hi, pie face," or "Hello,
ugly." And now comedians get paid
for being either insulting or insulted.

The Jack Benny program, for ex-
ample, is now just a series of slams
at our Jack. I'm all a-gag every time
I hear it.

Little Charlie earns his pennies by
insulting Edgar and his guests. You'd
think he could find something a little
funnier, wooden you? — Marion Good-
win, Andover, New York.

SECOND

In order to avoid missing some of
my favorite programs, I made a list
cataloguing each day, station and
time. A discarded framed picture was
the solution for hanging the list on
the wall near the radio. The back of
the frame is easily removed so changes
can be made in the list. It is not con-
spicuous and is quickly read. — Mrs.
Lyman P. Weld, Longmont, Colo.

THIRD

While I realize Information Please
is a top ranking program, and that all
those on the "board of experts" know
just about everything put to them,
I cannot see that it helps the listening
audience with real worthwhile in-
formation.

Most of the questions offer listeners
nothing more than a "show-off" of the
experts' ability to do complicated,
quirky deducing. Maybe I am wrong,
but I feel they should offer more real,
helpful information, such as history,
current events, lexicography and cor-
rect grammar, instead of all the
asinine nursery rhymes and hidden
Shakespearean passages. — Helen
Wickert, Baltimore, Md.

FOURTH

On our so-called "True-to-Life"

dramas, over the air, we seem to be

having an epidemic of people holding

long conversations with their con-

(Continued on page 62)

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TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION

AUGUST. 1941

ONE NIGHT after the other, Kate
Smith and Jack Benny both
celebrated their tenth anniver-
saries in radio. Kate's party was in
New York, at the Astor Hotel, Jack's
was in Hollywood, at the Biltmore
Bowl, and both of them were fancy
social affairs.

CBS gave Kate a reception and
dance after her Friday-night broad-
cast, while Jack was the guest of
honor at a dinner thrown by NBC.
Speeches were almost non-existent at
Kate's party, very plentiful at Jack's,
but there was very little solemnity at
either. All of radio's comedians who
broadcast from Hollywood were at
the Biltmore to honor Jack with
good-natured, kidding insults. Said
Bob Hope, "I'm very happy to be here
at this publicity stunt. Benny's my
favorite among the older comedians."
Fibber McGee asked Molly how long
they'd been on the air, and Molly
answered, "Fifteen years." "What
did NBC ever give us on our tenth
anniversary?" Fibber asked disgust-
edly. Molly replied, "They started
signing our contracts with ink."

Jack was the only comedian present
who made no attempt to be funny.
His little speech of thanks was quiet
and heart-felt.

* * *

Yes, Bess Johnson loves to ride
horseback — but last month she was
doing her dramatic broadcasts from a
wheel chair because she departed
from a horse's back rather too sud-
denly. Bess says bitterly, "You can
lead a horse to water — and drown him,
as far as I'm concerned, if he's the
one I was riding."

• * •

Ezra Stone's status in the draft still
has his sponsors worried. He'll be
able to stay with the Aldrich Family
show until July 10, when it takes a

Molly McGee and her Fibber
were among the comedians who
came to congratulate Benny.

four-week vacation. After that — well,
Henry Aldrich may be in the army.

* * »

National defense is the reason The
Amazing Mr. Smith has to go off the
air late in June. It's sponsored by a
company that makes tin cans for beer,
and metal is getting so precious it
can't be used for that frivolous pur-
pose any more. Hence there isn't
much point in having a radio program
to advertise things you can't make or
sell. The Amazing Mr. Smith may be
snapped up by another sponsor,
though. . . . Keenan Wynn, who plays
Mr. Smith, became a papa the other
day — a son, and his first child. This
makes Ed Wynn a grandfather, but he
tells everyone, politely but firmly, not
to call him that.

* * *

The no-applause rule on the Kraft
Music Hall has been broken just twice
since the show first went on the air.
The first person to break it was the
big boss himself, J. L. Kraft, president
of the sponsoring company. He got
carried away with enthusiasm one
night by the banter between Bing
Crosby and some Boy Scout guests,
and clapped before he remembered.
The second time the rule was broken
was on Alec Templeton's guest ap-
pearance. His rendition of the show's
theme song, "Hail, KMH," was so
good the audience couldn't keep from
applauding.

By DAN SENSENEY

Fred Waring's press-agent, Hilda
Cole, became the mother of twin girls
— and promptly named one of them
Freddie, after the boss.

* * *

Maudie's Diary, a half -hour comedy
drama based on the "Maudie" char-
acter you may have read about in
magazines, will replace Your Mar-
riage Club in August.

* * *
Congratulations to the Inner Sanc-
tum chill-and-shiver programs on
NBC Sunday nights. They started out
with a good idea, floundered around
a while, and now have settled down
to being really clever and exciting.
Tune one of them in and have yourself
a scare to cool you off on a hot sum-
mer night.

* * *

CHARLOTTE, N. C— Dick Pitts,
WBT's Hollywood Reporter, agrees
with old Bill Shakespeare that one
man in his time plays many parts.
Dick has played so many himself, in
his twenty-nine years that he makes
an ideal news -gatherer and a superb
critic of motion pictures and their
stars. He knows what a ditch-digger
enjoys on the screen, and what a com-
mercial artist would like, because he's
been both. For the same reason, he
can criticize a movie from the stand-
point of an engineer's assistant or an
actor.

Dick is on WBT twice a week at
5:15 in the afternoon. Broadcasting
is just one of his jobs; the other is
being the motion picture, art, drama
and music editor of the Charlotte
Observer, a post he has held success-
fully for the past seven years.

Back in 1930, Dick got his first taste
of radio when he wrote, directed and
acted in radio dramas by the dozens.
But drama had claimed him long be-
fore that — at {Continued on page 6)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

If someone told you that you
were guilty of halitosis (bad
breath), you'd probably feel humili-
ated beyond words.

Unfortunately, friends do not tell
you . . . the subject is too delicate. So
you go blindly on, perhaps offending
needlessly. Remember, halitosis is one
of the commonest and most offensive
conditions which anyone may have.
Every woman should realize this
threat and do something about it.
Clever ones do so and their reward
is an easier path to popularity. Wall-

flowers who overlook it can't com-
plain if wallflowers they remain.

Take This Precaution

Instead of taking your breath for
granted, remember that it may be "off
color" and use Listerine Antiseptic
every day as a mouth rinse. It is such an
easy, delightful, and effective precau-
tion . . .one which helps you to appear
at your best socially or in business.

Some cases of halitosis are due to
systemic conditions, but most cases,
say some authorities, are due to fer-

mentation of tiny food particles on
teeth, mouth, and gums. Listerine
Antiseptic quickly halts such fermen-
tation and then overcomes the odors
it causes. Your breath quickly be-
comes sweeter, purer, less likely to
offend.

A Hint to Men

Men can be bad offenders in this
matter, so if you adroitly suggest the
use of Listerine Antiseptic to them,
you'll be doing them a real favor.

Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo.

Let LISTERINE look after your breath

AUGUST, 1941

Beautiful screen star
Mary Astor has her
own program, but
as yet it is heard
only on the Pacific
Coast; below, Dick
Pitts is the Hol-
lywood Report-
er for station WBT
in Charlotte, N. C.

(Continued from page 4)
the age of six, to be exact. He's
acted both in the movies and on the
stage.

Tall, blue-eyed, and one of the most
eligible bachelors in town, Dick leads
the kind of life most of us long for.
Late each afternoon, never earlier
than three o'clock, he makes his un-
hurried way to his desk at the news-
paper office, reads his mail, checks the
city desk for assignments, then at his
leisure either writes a story or heads
uptown to find one. When he comes
to WBT for his broadcast he ambles
in with his script stuffed carelessly
into an inside pocket and faces the
microphone about a minute before air-
time. On his program he reports
Hollywood happenings and talks about
the new pictures in the same casual,
unhurried manner. In fact, there's no
word except "unhurried" to describe
him.

When Dick took over his Hollywood
reporting job scores of telegrams of
congratulations poured in for him from
movie celebrities, all friends of long
standing. With typical Pitts nonchal-
ance he stuffed them all into a back
pocket and forgot about them until he
happened to want his handkerchief.
If they hadn't fallen out then, to be
picked up by studio acquaintances, he
might never have gotten around to

letting it be known that people like

Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy had

sent him good wishes.
* * »

Raymond Gram Swing got his
Christmas present in June this year.
His sponsor, White Owl Cigars, re-
newed his contract then, to run

through next December 25.

* * *

There's more than one way for a
radio script writer to get inspiration.
Mrs. Gertrude Berg, author and star
of The Goldbergs, was stuck for an
idea to carry her story on, so she
wrote herself out of the script and
took a vacation in South Carolina.
When she came back to New York she
brought with her an idea for a full
episode, lasting several weeks and

laid in — of course — South Carolina.

* * *

Apparently the Dionne Quints flatly
refused to speak in English when they
were first scheduled to broadcast on
Ned Sparks' Canadian program over
CBS. The whole incident is shrouded

Henry Fonda makes
a face like a com-
edian himself as
he stops to chat
with Mr. and Mrs.
Fred MacMurray at
Jack Benny's party.

in mystery, with program officials
hinting that someone in the children's
household must have persuaded the

little girls to be uncooperative.

* * *

Dick Widmark, who was playing the
role of Neil Davisson in the Home of
the Brave serial, was inducted into the
army early in June. Chances are he's
at Fort Ord in California, along with

James Stewart and Jackie Coogan.

* * *

Good news is that the Ellery Queen
mystery series may be back on the
air soon — perhaps by the time you're

reading this.

* * *

Myron McCormick, who plays Joyce
Jordan's husband in Joyce Jordan,
Girl Interne over CBS, is always sur-
prising the other actors on the pro-
gram with the gifts he brings to the
studio on special occasions. For in-
stance, on Easter he distributed candy
eggs, on birthdays he shows up with
a cake, and on Fourth of July he al-
ways brings firecrackers or miniature
flags. Recently he presented Ann
Shepherd with an expensive bottle of
perfume. No one could figure out why
— until Myron explained that he and
Ann had been "married" — in the

script — for exactly one year.

* * *

ROCHESTER, N. Y.— Although Carl
Chamberlain's nightly program, Sports
Parade, is still a youngster as pro-
grams go, it has already become re-
quired listening for Rochester people.
It's heard at 6: 30 every evening except
Sunday over Rochester's station
WSAY, and the big reason for its
success is Carl himself.

Carl is a veteran sports authority,
and has been successful as an athlete,
coach and official. Besides being
WSAY's sports expert, he is Director
of Athletics at Franklin High School
in Rochester, the largest secondary
school between New York and Chica-
go.

During the World War, Carl enlisted
as a private at the age of seventeen,
saw service in France, and was com-
missioned a second lieutenant in the
Infantry Reserve upon his discharge.
From 1921 to 1929 he was athletic
director at a small high school in
Charlotte, N. Y., and attracted atten-
tion when his basketball team, despite
its origin in a small school, won a
championship.

He's been in Rochester, directing
athletics at the 4000-student Franklin
High, since 1930; and in that time he
has built teams that have consistently
won high places in inter-scholastic
athletic events. As a part-time re-
porter for Rochester papers, he writes
expert columns on basketball and
football. His hobby is sports promo-
tion and publicity.

Although he's busy most of the time,
Carl loves to fish, swim, play tennis,
go camping, and read. When he isn't
at WSAY or his school you'll find him
engaged in one or the other of these
activities. Incidentally, speaking of
tennis, his Franklin High team has
been undefeated since 1939 and has
won fourteen straight matches by
shut-out scores. With records like
that for his teams, no wonder sports-
minded Rochester people look up to
him as an authority.

* * *

SHENANDOAH, Iowa— Every day
except Sunday the announcer at Shen-
andoah's station KMA says, "It's two
o'clock and it's Kitchen Klatter Time
at KMA. We now visit the home of
Leanna Driftmier." And that, by re-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHBOB

mote control, is exactly what the
listener to KMA does. The broadcast
has to come from Leanna Driftmier's
home because Leanna herself spends
all her life in a wheel-chair — although
you would never suspect it from her
cheerful, inspiring programs.

Leanna Driftmier's story is one of
almost unbelievable courage. Until
the late summer of 1930 she was a
healthy, busy woman with the varied
tasks and interests of any devoted
wife and mother. Then her back was
broken in a motor car accident while
she was vacationing in southern Mis-
souri with her husband. From then
until Christmas Eve of the same year
she was in a Kansas City hospital. Her
homecoming on that memorable
Christmas Eve was one of the most
important events of the Driftmier
family life.

A year or so later she had learned
to walk on crutches, but one day her
crutch slipped and she fell, breaking
her hip. Now, paralyzed from the
hips down, she accepts her condition
with an infectious smile, spending all
her time helping others through her
broadcasts, letters, and a monthly
Kitchen Klatter Magazine.

Even during the months in the hos-
pital when she was in great pain,
Leanna insisted she was glad the ac-
cident had happened to her instead of
to anyone else in her family.

A typical Kitchen Klatter program
is made up of recipes, a poem or two,
or a story, a letter from one of
Leanna's children, and just the sort
of friendly talk one would expect to
hear from Leanna if she were actually
visiting each listener's home. Leanna's
family consists of her husband and
seven children, four sons and three
daughters — although only one son is
now at home. Another son is a mis-
sionary in Egypt, two others are in
college, and the one at home is in
business for himself. One daughter,
a writer, lives in California; another
is married and lives in Shenandoah,
and the third is still in college. Listen-
ers feel that they know these young
Driftmi.ers personally, for Leanna
passes along bits of news about them
on every broadcast. The letters from
her son in Egypt, which she reads on

the air, are particularly appreciated.
* * *

PITTSBURGH, Pa. — The busiest
person on the staff of Pittsburgh's sta-
tion KQV these days is Jerry McCon-
nell, the Gospel Singer. Jerry is heard
on KQV every morning of the week,
he works every day as dispatcher in
(Continued on page 78)

Authority on all sports at WSAY,
Rochester, is Carl Chamberlain.

Wake your skin to New Loveliness
with Camay — Go on the

*MILD-SOAP"DIET!

This lovely bride, Mrs. John B. LaPointe of Waterbnry, Conn., says: "I can't tell
yon how much Camay's 'Mild-Soap' Diet has done for my skin. Whenever I see
a lovely woman whose skin looks cloudy, I can hardly help telling her abont it."

Even many girls with sensitive skin
can profit by this exciting beauty
idea — based on the advice of skin

specialists, praised by lovely brides!

YOU CAN BE lovelier! You can help
your skin— help it to a cleaner, fresh-
er, more natural loveliness by changing
to a "Mild-Soap" Diet.

So many women cloud the beauty of
their skin through improper cleansing.
And so many women use a soap not as
mild as a beauty soap should be.

Skin specialists themselves advise reg-
ular cleansing with a fine mild soap. Arid
Camay is milder by actual test than 10
other popular beauty soaps.

Twice every day— for 30 days— give your
skin Camay's gentle care. It's the day to
day routine that reveals the full benefit
of Camay's greater mildness. And in a
few short weeks you can reasonably hope
to have a lovelier, more appealing skin.

Camay is milder by actual
other popular beauty soaps

THE SOAP OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

recorded test — in tests against ten
Camay was milder than any of theml

Go on the

CAMAY
"MILD
SOAP"
DIET!

Work Camay's milder lather
over your skin, paying special
attention to nose, base of the
nostrils and chin. Rinse and then
sixty seconds of cold splashings.

Then, while you eleep, the tiny
pore openings are free to func-
tion for natural beauty. In the
morning— one more quick ses-
sion with this milder Camay.

AUGUST, 1941

SAY goodbye to external pads on your vaca-
tion this year . . . Tampax helps you to
conquer the calendar, because Tampax is worn
internally. Even in a '41 swim suit, it cannot
show through; no bulge or wrinkle or faintest
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A doctor has perfected Tampax so ingeni-
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needed — and it's easy to dispose of Tampax.

Tampax is made of pure, compressed sur-
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-State -

There's a reason why bandleader
Harry James, above, wants to live
near the circus when he retires.
Right, Lynn Gardner, newcomer to
Will Bradley's dance orchestra.

ARTIE SHAW was offered the
chance to conduct MBS' orches-
' tra of 42 men but the clarinetist
hasn't made up his mind.

Arty Arthur is busy taking serious
music lessons from Dr. Hans Byrns,
Austrian refugee and former Vien-
nese opera conductor.

* * #

George Hall told me he will re-
tire from active conducting and turn
the band over to singer Dolly Dawn.
George will act as manager.

* # #

Donna Reade, MBS Chicago vocal-
ist, lost her four-month-old baby.

* » *

Bobby Byrne has succeeded despite
a string of bad breaks. Last month he
encountered another tough setback.
Scheduled for a 12-week engagement
at the Hotel New Yorker, Bobby was
not permitted to play the date be-
cause the musicians' union, acting in
sympathy with an electrical union
strike at the hotel, wouldn't let any
musicians cross the picket line. A
hurried itinerary of one nighters and
a stretch at the Jersey Meadowbrook
were substituted for the young trom-
bonist. On top of that, he experienced
another minor hospital session.

Mrs. W. Baird of Pittsburgh should
be very proud. Her two singing
daughters, Eugenie and Kay Marie,
came to New York and in two days,
landed jobs with bigtime bands — Eu-
genie with Tony Pastor and Kay with
Mai Hallett.

* * *

At a recent broadcast Walter Dam-
rosch, accompanying Lucy Monroe's
rendition of "The Star Spangled Ban-
ner," refused to rehearse the 60-piece
orchestra. He said the musicians were
Americans and shouldn't require re-
hearsals for the national anthem.

THIS CHANGING WORLD

Roy Eldridge, trumpet wizard, dis-
banded his own orchestra to take over
a featured solo spot with Gene Krupa.
Another Krupa acquisition is singer
Anita O'Day. . . . Woody Herman gets
to Hollywood's Palladium July 18
with an NBC wire. . . . Marion Francis
is leaving Frankie Master's band for
solo radio work. . . . Johnny Long is
on NBC from Virginia Beach. . . . Duke
Daly's unit is established for the
summer at Playland Casino, Rye, N. Y.
His wife is Paula Stone, one of Fred
Stone's daughters. . . . Charlie Bar-
net's thrush, Lena Home, has left the
band. . . . Sammy Kaye is looking for
a girl vocalist again. . . . Jan Savitt

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

and Art Jarrett are now waxing for
Victor. Many of Hal Kemp's musi-
cians are now with the latter. . . .
That baritone singer on the Big Sis-
ter daylight serial is former CBS page
boy Bobby Gibson.

* * *

Shep Fields has discarded his rip-
pling rhythms for a swingier type
band that features ten saxophones.

* * *

By the time you read this Madison
Square Garden will be transformed
into a huge summer dance hall. MBS
has exclusive wires into the converted
sports arena for broadcasts by Benny
Goodman, Charlie Barnet, and other
headliners.

* * *

Dinah Shore has one of the most
elaborate wardrobes in radio. She
owns ten evening gowns, each costing
about $125.

* * *

Canada Lee, dusky dramatic star of
Orson Welles' stage hit "Native Son,"
and a former boxer, may turn band-
leader and make his debut in Har-
lem's sizzling Savoy Ballroom.

* * *

Zinn Arthur, one of the first leaders
to be drafted, is organizing a 35-piece

musical unit at Camp Upton, Long
Island.

Eddy Duchin is in Rio de Janeiro,
in case you've missed him on the air.

Remember Ray Noble's former vo-
calist, Al Bowlly? Well, he's back in
England and was recently a victim of
a Nazi bombing blitz.

Noble's new trio includes a pair of
twins, Lee and Lynn Wild, who are
almost identical. Lynn is five feet
two. Lee is five two and a fraction.
Lynn weighs 106, a pound more than
her sister. To complicate matters,
both are nicknamed "Twinnie."

Dick Jurgens has invested $5,000 in
recording equipment which he uses to
cut test records before going to the
Okeh studios for the actual trans-
missions.

Will Bradley is set for New York's
Hotel Astor roof July 17, following
Tommy Dorsey.

Gray Gordon, who discarded his tic-
toe style because it outlived its use-
fulness, is now searching for a theme
song title.

Benny Goodman is living proof that
swing is far from dead. He cracked
nearly all the Paramount theater, New
York, records when he played there
recently with his new band, though
playing on the same bill with the

new Crosby-Hope film, "Road to Zan-
zibar," didn't hurt.

All radio row believes that Jack
Teagarden has finally organized the
kind of band worthy of him, after
several false starts. The band has
just been signed for Bing Crosby's
new picture, "Birth of the Blues."

FROM SAWDUST TO STARDUST

WHEN most of the current crop of
young bandleaders were still in
knickers, grudgingly keeping dates
with their music teachers, six-year-
old Harry James was proudly turning
flip flops in a bigtime circus.

As the boys grew older, worship-
ing Bix Beiderbecke and other great
swing stylists, Harry listened to his
trumpet-playing father tell stories
about another famous trumpeter, Her-
bert Clark. But where Bix pioneered
a new music form, Clark faithfully
carried on the fast-fading profession
of cornet virtuoso in a military band.

Today as city-bred jazzists complain
of one-night stand rigors, travel-
toughened Harry smiles and says:

"This is just like the circus business,
moving free and easy from town to
town. I get restless if I have to stay
in one place (Continued on page 61)

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suds in 3 seconds in cool water! And cool water is
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Imagine! Ivory Snow doesn't need hot water! So
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suds! Ask for Ivory Snow today

— in the large economy size or

the handy medium size.

2-MINUTE CARE FOR
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suds pile up in 3 sec-
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with Ivory Snow helps
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time after time in those
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colors stay bright!

TRADEMARK REG. U. 3. PAT. OFF. • PROCTER * GAMB

AUGUST. 1941

L " : J

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

A doctor has perfected Tampax so ingeni-
ously it can be inserted and removed quickly
and easily. Your hands need not even touch the
Tampax, which comes in dainty applicator.
You can dance, play games ... use tub or
shower. No odor can form; no deodorant
needed — and it's easy to dispose of Tampax.

Tampax is made of pure, compressed sur-
gical cotton, very absorbent, comfortable, effi-
cient. Three sizes: Regular, Super, Junior. Sold
at drug stores and notion counters. Introduc-
tory box, 204.. Economy package of 40 is a
real bargain. Don't wait for next month!
Join the millions using
Tampax now!

Accepted for Advertising by
the Journal of the American
Medical Association.

TAMPAX INCORPORATED mwg

New Brunswick, N. J.

Please send me in plain wrapper the new trial package
of Tampax. I enclose V>i (stamps or silver) to cover cost
of mailing. Size is checked below.

( ) REGULAR ( ) SUPBR ( ) JUNIOR

Name ___ ____

Address ,

Gry-

-State -

There's a reason why bandleader
Harry James, above, wants to live
near the circus when he retires.
Right, Lynn Gardner, newcomer to
Will Bradley's dance orchestra.

ARTIE SHAW was offered the
chance to conduct MBS' orches-
tra of 42 men but the clarinetist
hasn't made up his mind.

# * *

Arty Arthur is busy taking serious
music lessons from Dr. Hans Byrns,
Austrian refugee and former Vien-
nese opera conductor.

# * #

George Hall told me he will re-
tire from active conducting and turn
the band over to singer Dolly Dawn.
George will act as manager.

# # *

Donna Reade, MBS Chicago vocal-
ist, lost her four-month-old baby.

# * #

Bobby Byrne has succeeded despite
a string of bad breaks. Last month he
encountered another tough setback.
Scheduled for a 12-week engagement
at the Hotel New Yorker, Bobby was
not permitted to play the date be-
cause the musicians' union, acting in
sympathy with an electrical union
strike at the hotel, wouldn't let any
musicians cross the picket line A
hurried itinerary of one nighters and
a stretch at the Jersey Meadowbrook
were substituted for the young trom-
bonist. On top of that, he experienced
another minor hospital session.

Jan Sav

Mrs. W. Baird of Pittsburgh should
be very proud. Her two singing
daughters, Eugenie and Kay Mane,
came to New York and in two days,
landed jobs with bigtime bands— Eu-
genie with Tony Pastor and Kay witn
Mai Hallett.

# * *

At a recent broadcast Walter Dam-
rosch, accompanying Lucy Monroes
rendition of "The Star Spangled Ban-
ner," refused to rehearse the 60-piece
orchestra. He said the musicians were
Americans and shouldn't require re-
hearsals for the national anthem.

THIS CHANGING WORLD

Roy Eldridge, trumpet wizard, dis-
banded his own orchestra to take ove
a featured solo spot with Gene Krup*
Another Krupa acquisition is sing

Anita O'Day Woody Herman ge»

to Hollywood's Palladium July i

with an NBC wire Marion Frant

is leaving Frankie Master's bana js
solo radio work. . . . Johnny ^on°ta>
on NBC from Virginia Beach. . • ■ ut?L
Daly's unit is established for y,
summer at Playland Casino, Rye, JVj
His wife is Paula Stone, one oi *
Stone's daughters. . . . Charlie d
net's thrush, Lena Home, has 'ei for

band Sammy Kaye is looking^

a girl vocalist again.

and Art Jarrett are now waxing for
Victor. Many of Hal Kemp's musi-
cians are now with the latter. .
That baritone singer on the Big Sis-
ter daylight serial is former CBS page
boy Bobby Gibson.

* ♦ »

Shep Fields has discarded his rip-
pling rhythms for a swingier type
band that features ten saxophones.

* * *

Dinah Shore has one of the most
elaborate wardrobes in radio. She
owns ten evening gowns, each costing
about $125.

* * •

Canada Lee, dusky dramatic star of
Orson Welles' stage hit "Native Son,"
and a former boxer, may turn band-
leader and make his debut in Har-
lem's sizzling Savoy Ballroom.

* * *

Zinn Arthur, one of the first leaders
to be drafted, is organizing a 35-piece

musical unit at Camp Upton, Long
in^ooy Duchin is in Rio de Janeiro

a Nazi bombing blitz.
J*s new trio includes a pair of
twins Lee and Lynn Wild who are
almost identical. Lynn is five feet
two. Lee is five two and a friction

heTsiTter^Tn6' a P<Td ™reth£
hS* if •• i To comP»cate matters,
both are nicknamed "Twinnie." '

r.J£*- JurSens has invested $5,000 in
Srtw* ^"W* which he uses to
cut test records before going to the

Son^108 f°r the aCtua! tr^!

KcltJPF\adley is sTet for New York's

Tomrny^rsey00' ** "' f°U°Wing
Gray Gordon, who discarded his tic-
toe style because it outlived its use-
songetitleS n°W searching for a theme
Benny Goodman is living proof that
swing is far from dead. He cracked
nearly all the Paramount theater, New
York, records when he played there
recently with his new band, though
playing on the same bill with the

Twi,.!?dl0uro^. believes that Jack
kind ndeLhaS fin!ly organized the
Kind of band worthy of him after

iusThLn3186 st5rt|- The band" has
just been signed for Bing Crosby's
new picture, "Birth of the Blues"'

FROM SAWDUST TO STARDUST

M/HEN most of the current crop of
J T young bandleaders were still in
knickers, grudgingly keeping dates
with their music teachers, six-year-
old Harry James was proudly turning
nip flops in a bigtime circus.

i„;Hrth<V.boJys grew older- worship-
ing Bix Beiderbecke and other great
swing stylists, Harry listened to his
trumpet-playing father tell stories
about another famous trumpeter, Her-
bert Clark. But where Bix pioneered
a new music form, Clark faithfully
carried on the fast-fading profession
of cornet virtuoso in a military band.

loday as city-bred jazzists complain
of one-night stand rigors, travel-
toughened Harry smiles and says:

'This is just like the circus business
moving free and easy from town to
town. I get restless if I have to stay
in one place (Continued on page 61)

COOL-WATER SOAP ENDS HOT-WATER FADING!
TRY AMAZING NEW IVORY SNOW!

Ivory Snow bursts into suds in 3 seconds
in cool water! Safer for bright colors!

Imagine! Ivory Snow doesn't need hot water! So
you don't risk the heartbreak of watching pretty
colors fade out and get dull from hot water. Be-
sides, Ivory Snow is pure! So colors get double

protection — pure suds and cool

suds! Ask for Ivory Snow today

— in the large economy size or

the handy medium size.

2-MINUTE CARE FOR
STOCKING WEAR!

Plenty of cool, pure
suds pile up in 3 sec-
onds! (No waiting for
hot water.) Nightly care
with Ivory Snow helps
stockings wear!

WHAT A PICNIC FOR
PRINT DRESSES!

Yes... Ivory Snow means
happy days for pretty
washables! Wash 'em
time after time in those
cool suds and see how
colors stay bright!

RADIO AND TELEVISION

AOGDSI, 1941

HOW FMNCES l/INOFORD

PEOPLE are always saying — not a
little glibly — that you can't change
human nature. Personally, I think
there's lots of room for argument
there and I couldn't ask for a better
example to prove my point than
Frances Langford.

For Frances has changed, not only
her outward appearance, but her per-
sonality, deeply and fundamentally.
And she did it deliberately.

As recently as 1938, in spite of five
years of spectacular success — or per-
haps, because of them — Frances Lang-
ford was still a child. She was over
twenty, nevertheless she was still a
little girl in an adult world. She was
painfully shy and reluctant to assert
herself, even among friends. She was
too thin and quick to tears, timid and
easily driven into a shell. She seemed
bewildered by her success and over-
whelmed by the visible evidences of
it. Only when she was singing, was

"I fell in love with her all over
again." That's what Jon Hall,
Frances' husband, said when
he saw her new personality.

Frances sure oi herself.

This was certainly a very different
person from the Frances Langford
who walked into the broadcasting
studio the other day. She was wear-
ing an all-black costume, a figure
molding, draped, crepe dress and a
huge "Merry Widow" hat, veiled with
heavy lace. The only touch of color
relief came from the amethyst ring
and bracelets, which Jon Hall, her
husband, had given her on her birth-
day.

Now, two years before, Frances ap-
pearing in such a costume would have
set all her best friends to offering
their condolences on her bereavement.
It would have been unthinkable to
them that Frances should wear
sombre black for any other reason.

Of course, there was more to it than

By PAULINE SWANSON

A re-birth into loveliness that is
more than skin-deep is possible for
every woman, says a famous star who
is living proof that people do change

the costume. This was no little girl
playing dress-up games. This was a
woman with a flair for style, a self
possessed, confident woman, leaning
lightly on her husband's arm. Her
face was radiant and lovely with hap-
piness and the way she walked and
smiled and talked made you instantly
aware that she was a well poised, well
rounded person.

Perhaps one of the most positive
signs of the change in Frances Lang-
ford is the ease with which you can
get her to talk about herself, now.
We — Frances, Jon and I — sat in a
corner of the studio to talk, while the
rest of the cast rehearsed scenes in
which Frances was not needed. And
I was immediately struck by the dif-
ference. A couple of years ago, it
would have been impossible to ask
Frances the questions I did, without
feeling impertinent.

I remarked that she had gained
weight and that it was very be-
coming.

Frances smiled, "I've gained fifteen
pounds," she said proudly. "Jon
makes me take a hot milk drink every
night before we go to bed."

"And I make her go to bed early,"
Jon put in.

Frances nodded. "No more night
clubs. We like to stay home. And we
go to bed early, so we can get up early
and get out into the sunshine." She
put her hand on Jon's arm. "But the
main reason I feel so well," she said,
"is that I don't worry any more. I
can lose more pounds by worrying.
And I used to be stewing about some-
thing, all the time. Now," she flashed
a smile at her husband, "I've got
everything I want. The world can't
frighten anyone as happy as I am."

Jon grinned. "I'll leave you, if you
get fat," he threatened.

"Then I'll worry so much I'll get
thin again and you'll come back,"
Frances laughed.

"You've done other things besides
gain weight," I said then. "Your
hair — "

"Oh, yes," Frances said. "You know,
it's a funny thing about my hair. It
used to be black, remember?" I re-
membered. "It photographed like a
blotter, no life, no lights in it. And
it always made my face look so small
and sort of pinched. The only time it
looked well, at all, was when I'd been
out in the sun a lot and some red
streaks would show up in it. So I
tinted it copper. And the strange

RADIO AND TELEVISION -MIRROR

thing is that it's done a lot more for
me than just make my hair look softer
in pictures. I guess it's something like
that old cure-all for the blues — you
know, going out and buying a startling
hat or dress. There's something about
a perky hat. You have to live up to
it. And it's like that with my hair,
now. You just can't be timid and self
effacing with copper colored hair."

"How do you like her with her hair
like that?" I asked Jon.

"I fell in love with her all over
again, when she changed it," he said
with a wide grin.

Frances has learned the secret of
make-up, too. The pencil thin eye-
brows and exaggerated lips she af-
fected during the period when she was
trying so hard to conform to her idea
of theatricalism have disappeared.
And her own brow line and lips do a
great deal to bring out the fine model-
ling in her face.

Days in the sun, without any make-
up on, at all, convinced her that her
natural skin tones were better than
the artificial pinky whites in her
make-up kit. So she substituted a
suntan powder base and powder for
her former pinkish one and changed
to deeper lipstick, rouge and eye-
shadow.

No more unhealthy pallor for
Frances, real or make-believe. She
uses rouge now and her lipstick is
put on, not for artificial, dramatic ef-
fect, but to bring out the natural lines
of her mouth. She says she uses a
brush to apply her lipstick, because it
is easier to follow the outlines of her
lips that way.

And what about the type of clothes
she was wearing now, I asked her.
What made her change?

"I suppose," she said, "it's a little
like the hair and make-up. I've al-
ways loved smart, dramatic clothes,
but I never dared to wear them. Have
you ever known women who liked
bright colors and daring styles, but
always wore drab, ordinary things
because they didn't want to look
flashy or attract too much attention?
I was a little like that. I thought I
ought to do my best to bring out my
personality — but — well, I was thin and
pale and I had an idea my personality
called for pastels and ginghams and
little girl stuff. But now. that I've
tried wearing the things I like, I find
that I don't feel flashy at all. I just
feel right and smart. That's very
important, feeling that you look right
in your clothes. It gives you confi-
dence. One of the worst feelings in
the world is walking into a room and
immediately making people uncom-
fortable with your own sense of inse-
curity. The only thing I can imagine
that's worse, is not to have people
notice you at all, because you're too
mousy and too afraid to be anything
else.

"That's the way she used to be,"
Jon said. {Continued on page 49)

AUCUST, 1941

Is soap to blame if your

Your skin may be sensitive to one certain soap, yet
Cashmere Bouquet Soap may prove mild and agreeable

It's one of the mysteries of the
human skin, that a perfectly
good soap can prove irritating to
certain complexions. One woman
out of two reports that difficulty.
And yet these same women
may find Cashmere Bouquet Soap
entirely agreeable to a sensitive
skin. Yes, generations of lovely
women have relied on this mild

soap. And because it's so nice to
be like peaches and cream all over
. . . and to be glamorously scented
with the fragrance men love . . .
you'll glory in bathing with
Cashmere Bouquet Soap, too.

Get three luxurious cakes of
mild, fragrant Cashmere Bouquet
Soap for only 25 cents, wherever
good soap is sold.

WITH THE FRAGRANCE MEN LOVE

How brutally blind a man
can be! He was an American
radio broadcaster in London
when he first saw her, stand-
ing bewildered before the
ruins of her home. Then she
turned and smiled at him

I HAD very sud-
denly become
sick of war, the
night I met Judy. I think that was
part of it, and the way she was feel-
ing, too. But not all of it. How
brutally blind a man can be!

Blindness like that doesn't hap-
pen just in a besieged city between
two people half crazed by bomb-
ing. If it did I would not be writing
this. I want to tell this story because
my experience is only a rather ex-
treme example of a tragic mistake
that men in their arrogant stupidity
are very prone to make. Perhaps

I have a persistent little supersti-
tion that by trying to make up for
mine, this way, a little, I can coax
Fate to relent, to find me a way
out —

So here it is.

Until that night the war had been
a job to me; a hard, grueling job
of course, sometimes frightening but
always exciting and very often good
fun. I didn't miss the horror and
agony of what people were suffer-
ing around me, and I was often
shocked and depressed by it. But
it never came through to me, as if
it were my own. There was always

something remote, something sepa-
rating it from my life and making
it a little unreal to me. After all, I
had an expense account that let me
eat at one of the best hotels in the
world, where none of the diners felt
the pinch of food rationing, where
even the cots in the air raid shelters
were covered with eiderdown puffs.
None of the pink-cheeked boys who
took off to meet their death fighting
the Luftwaffe was my kid brother;
none of the men who stood unpro-
tected on rooftops during hour after
hour of raids was uncle or father to
me. Neither the girls driving the

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

He let her cry and held her
close, smoothing her hair,
murmuring little words. But
still he didn't know what had
so stirred him, making this
moment, torn from war's
desolation, so very beautiful

She did not seem to see me.
Her eyes were huge and
staring with a blank look
of terror. I spoke to her
softly between the crashes.

ambulances nor the people dragged
out from the ruins to ride in them
were any kin of mine, and this coun-
try was not my country.

All I was there for was to see
the show; record as much of it as
the censors would allow, and speak
it out across the airwaves to other
Americans listening even more im-
personally at home. And in between
the more difficult and dangerous
parts of gathering material there
were plenty of drinks with other
correspondents, lavish entertain-
ment from this nation that wanted
nothing more than the help of ours,

AUGUST, 1941

and there was plenty of gay com-
pany among the gay, half -hysterical
girls who were caught up in the
spirit of "eat, drink and be merry,
for tomorrow we die." That was a
pretty tempting set-up for a man
who, like the rest of a roving, root-
less profession, learns to take his
fun where he finds it, following no
rules except these two: Try not to
let anyone get hurt, and don't get
into entanglements. In a few years
of knocking around the world, the
last one had become almost second
nature to me.

So that's how things stood, till

the night it happened.

I had been in the studio for hours,
waiting around for midnight which
means seven o'clock at home. I had
dined early with a man in the office
of the Secretary for Home Defense
and like other people who have to
be any place at any special time I
had crossed the city before dark.
The Germans were sending down
some pretty heavy stuff by the time
I got to the neighborhood and I de-
cided the studio offered better pro-
tection than I could find under any
table in my flat.

(Continued on page 50)

How brutally blind a man
can be! He was an American
radio broadcaster in London
when he first saw her, stand-
ing bewildered before the
ruins of her home. Then she
turned and smiled at him

I HAD very sud-
denly become
sick of war, the
night I met Judy. I think that was
part of it, and the way she was feel-
ing, too. But not all of it. How
brutally blind a man can be!

I have a persistent little supersti-
tion that by trying to make up for
mine, this way, a little, I can coax
Fate to relent, to find me a way
put —

So here it is.

something remote, something sepa-
rating it from my life and making
it a little unreal to me. After all, I
had an expense account that let me
eat at one of the best hotels in the
world, where none of the diners fe»
the pinch of food rationing, where
even the cots in the air raid shelters
were covered with eiderdown puns.
None of the pink-cheeked boys who
took off to meet their death fighting
the Luftwaffe was my kid brother;
none of the men who stood VR^°'
tected on rooftops during hour ait*
hour of raids was uncle or father
me. Neither the girls driving t»e

RADIO AND TELEVISION M"*

ambulances nor the people dragged
out from the ruins to ride in them
were any kin of mine, and this coun-
try was not my country.

th^u1 Was there for was to see
rne show; record as much of it as
the censors would allow, and speak
I out across the airwaves to other
Americans listening even more im-
personally at home. And in between
Dart™01* difficult and dangerous
parts of gathering material there
were plenty of drinks with other
rn^f?0ndents' lavish entertain-
™". from this nation that wanted
n°uung m0re than the help of ours,

ACCOST, 1941

He let her cry and held her
close, smoothing her hair,
murmuring little words. But
still he didn't know what had
so stirred him, making this
moment, torn from war's
desolation, so very beautiful

She did not seem to see me.
Her eyes were huge and
staring with a blank look
of terror. I spoke to her
softly between the crashes.

the night it happened.

{Continued on page 50)

amancc

HOW lovely Trenthony is with
the boxwoods there along the
road," Helen thought. She
turned her car out, away from Hol-
lywood, toward Gil Whitney's house.
And as always, when she called on
Gil Whitney, or even looked at the
boxwoods that he had brought her
from South Carolina, she began to
think of him more strongly, as
though she were already talking to
him, watching him, listening to
him. She could almost see him —
the tall, muscular figure, the face
so much more youthful than his

years warranted, the dark hair only
faintly peppered with gray, and the
sensitive, firm mouth, capable of so
many different shades of emotion.

Helen swung the car up beside his
house, and as she stopped she saw
him coming around the corner of the
garage with a rake in his hand. She
laughed a moment, quietly, at the
big straw hat on his head. "A fine
way to spend a sunny Saturday
afternoon!" she called.

Gil put down the rake deliber-
ately; made a boyish pantomime of
a slow-moving farmer. "The crops

Gil Whitney, with a face so much more youthful than his
years warranted, dark hair faintly peppered with gray.

won't wait," he said. "The seed
sprouts, and it must be harvested.
But all my seeds must be weed
seeds."

Then they both laughed.
It was always that way between
them. They could laugh together or
play together, or be serious together,
and always, underneath everything
they did, ran that rich, deep current
of closeness and understanding.

That is, it had been that way ever
since Drew Sinclair had finally gone
away — to the sanitarium at Santa
Barbara.

"Come inside, Helen," Gil said.
"The drapes that you ordered for
the library came out Thursday, and
yesterday they put them up. Come
cast your expert's eye on them."

"Yes," Helen said excitedly. "I
want to see them. I'm a little dubi-
ous about that red in the daytime.
I'm sure it'll be fine at night, but in
the sunlight — "

"Dismiss your fears, darling.
They're just right. I couldn't have
imagined anything more perfect. In
fact, I walked in there this morn-
ing. Up and down. Back and forth.
It gives me pleasure to see them."

They passed through the split
Dutch door that seemed to invite one
in, and Helen almost ran to the
library. She stood in the center of
the room, looking all about her,
carefully wanting to see the shades
and depths of light in every part of
the room. And finally her eyes
lighted on the big painting of Paula
that hung above the mantelpiece.
Her glance left it reluctantly.

"Yes," she said. "They're all right.
They do exactly what I wanted them
to do. And the light is very good on
Paula's portrait, don't you think?"
Her voice fell a little flat.

"Yes," Gil said impatiently, and
Helen noticed he didn't look at the
picture. "But Helen, you're the
loveliest thing in this room or out
of it. I think you must have con-
ceived of this color scheme for your-
self and yourself alone."

Helen could feel her heart beat a
little faster. "Of course I did, silly!
What woman would ever decorate a
room in colors she couldn't show
off in!"

They wandered into the living
room, and as they walked side by
side, Helen felt Gil's hand first under
her arm, and then hesitantly, around
her waist. Again she knew that lit—

Her love for Drew Sinclair
was dead, but loyalty more
powerful than love kept her
faithful to him, even while
her heart cried its answer
to another man's devotion

tie rippling surge of the heart, and
again she tried to stifle it.

"I like these drapes too, Gil, don't
you?" she said, and started toward
the window.

"Helen, darling!" The urgency in
his voice made her stop. "Helen!"

She knew then for the first time
the depths of shyness in Gil Whit-
ney, and it made her both proud
and humble to see before herself
this embarrassment in a man ac-
customed to swaying juries with his
eloquence.

"Yes, Gil," she said softly, and
put her hand in his.

Suddenly all his love for her, so
long denied and pushed back and
ignored, leaped up into his hand-
some gray eyes. "You must have
known," he said. "You must have
known that I've loved you for a long
time, and never said it. That I asked
you to help me decorate the house
because I wanted you near me, that
I came to see you because I couldn't
stay away."

"I did know, Gil," she said, "but
I wouldn't admit it. I couldn't ad-
mit it. Not with Drew — "

Gil's face darkened perceptibly.
"Drew Sinclair brought you nothing
but worry and heartbreak," he said
harshly. "Every time you saw him
it hurt me too, because I knew he
was bad for you."

"Please, Gil, don't talk that way.
It's — it's all over now. I'm free.
And I love you."

"Gil's face went white under the
tan. "Say that again, darjing. Just
say I love you."

"I love you! I love you!" Helen
whispered intensely.

Then they were in each other's
arms, straining together, trying des-

AUGUST, 1941

It seemed to Gil that no woman but Helen had ever been so
proud and sensitive and lovely. He wanted her for his wife.

perately to make up for the years of
doubt and fear and worry that lay
behind them. "Dearest Helen," Gil
kept saying over and over.

"Gil," Helen said at last, seriously.
"Tell me, dear, about — about Paula.
Are you all right now?"

When he spoke Gil's voice was
thoughtful and sure. "Paula and I
were married thirteen years ago,"
he said slowly. "And three weeks

The doily broadcast serial that has
a million listeners, now told as a

later, before our honeymoon had
ended, she died."

"I know — " Helen said softly.

"And of course it broke me all up.
It couldn't have been otherwise, be-
cause I loved Paula very much. But
I see now that I've been cherishing
the memory of those few ecstatic
days, building it up into something
a little finer than it was. For a long
time I thought I'd never love
another woman. Then when you
came along, Helen, I began to sus-
pect it, little by little. And now I
know I was wrong."

"I'm glad," Helen said. "I think—
I think I've wanted you too for a
long time, Gil, darling. I wanted
your saneness and understanding,
and now, I feel as though I couldn't
live without you."

Gil sank happily into the deep
davenport. He stretched out his arms

toward the sunlight streaming into
the wide-windowed room. "Don't
wake me up," he said. "When will
we be married?"

"As soon as we can," Helen said.

"Sooner," he insisted. "Much
sooner than that! And let's tell some
people right away. Let's go over
and tell Miss Anthony. Let's tell
everybody!"

"Yes!" Helen breathed. "I want
to, too." Her fine face grew serious
then, and even in the bright room a
shadow seemed to cross it.

BUT, Gil," she said, "there's
something we must talk about
first — something we must discuss."

"Drew Sinclair," Gil said quickly.

"Yes," Helen said. "Drew Sinclair.
And please, Gil, try to understand.
Drew and I were almost married
once. We were engaged for two
years, ind I can't forget him easily."

Gil nodded, his troubled glance
fixed on the green carpet, but he
said nothing.

"I want to go to the sanitarium,
Gil, and see him once more."

He moved quickly and almost
fiercely, so that Helen, watching
him, knew something close to fright.
"Why in the name of Heaven do
you want to see him again?" he de-
manded. "Drew Sinclair has never
meant anything for you but heart-
break. Why give him another
chance?"

"It isn't another chance, darling,"
Helen insisted. "It's just that I — I
owe him something. You know I
couldn't tell him during those last
hectic weeks he was here how I
felt — that I couldn't marry him —
that I didn't — love him any more — "

"I don't want you to go see him,
Helen," Gil said. "I'd give anything
if you didn't feel you had to."

"Besides," Helen said, "I must
know that he's safe and as happy
there as it's possible to make him.
I think — I think it'll make me hap-
pier with you, Gil, to know that he's
all right, and getting well. And
darling — he has a right to know
about us from me. I want him to
hear it from me, and not read it in
the paper."

"He'll never get well," Gil said
slowly. "He'll be there all the rest of
his life. Leave him alone, Helen. If
you love me, don't go!"

"It's because I love you that I
must go. Please understand." Helen
cried. "I must go because it's the
only way for us to be happy."

Fictlonlzed from the serial on
CBS at 12:30 P.M., E.D.T., spon-
sored by Edna Wallace Hopper.
Photographs posed by Virginia
Clark as Helen, Marvin Mueller
at Gil and Reese Taylor as Drew.

The next day Helen drove to
Santa Barbara. The drive was long
and lonely. As the miles slipped
slowly behind her, Helen's thoughts
turned insistently to Drew Sinclair.
Drew! She thought of the first time
she'd seen him — that day four years
ago at Sentinel Studios.. How hand-
some and fine he had been! How
quick to understand her costume
ideas, how ready with praise and
chary with criticism. To him, Helen
felt, she owed most of what she had
become as top studio designer in
Hollywood.

And Drew, it was, who suggested
that she start Helen Trent, Inc., the
exclusive little shop, the apple of
her eye, that had helped her weather
the periods of studio lay-offs — given
her a measure of independence from
her salary, and a place and a proj-
ect of her own.

Yes, those had been the happy
days, working for Drew, and know-
ing again the slow flowering of love;
feeling her heart grow lighter,
watching the adoration in Drew's
eyes become the deep, sure love of
a successful man who had not been
spoiled by success.

Remembering, Helen's mind
tricked her into a comparison be-
tween then and now. Now her chief
at Monarch Studios was a Mr. An-
derson, who knew nothing about
costumes and admitted it, but fan-
cied himself possessed of a great
insight into the mind and heart of
a woman. He telephoned Helen
every day.

At first ostensibly on business,
but lately he had begun to suggest
meetings away from the studio.
Helen had always refused as dis-
armingly as she could, but Mr.
Anderson's invitations became
steadily more pressing, and Helen
began to dread the time when she
could no longer refuse. Because Mr.
Anderson had the way and reputa-
tion of a man who would willingly
use his position to force attentions
upon a woman.

Once, Helen would have refused
his offers indignantly, and retreated
to the safety of Helen Trent, Inc.,
but the shop too had fallen into the
doldrums. Some unscrupulous com-
petitors had used every fair and foul
trick to run it down, and now it
barely made its own way. She must
cajole Mr. Anderson and put him
off with diplomacy, because her job
was important to her.

Then the car slipped into the
stretch of road just below Santa
Barbara, and Helen's thoughts
turned again to Drew — his ardent
courtship, their long engagement,
his niceness, his understanding and
love all around her, protecting her,
making her feel safe and sure and

wanted again. And Drew's sudden,
vicious attacks of migraine head-
aches that had first driven him to
frenzy and later to the powerful
sedative. Then had come liquor to
counteract the sedative, and Drew
began to break up, under Helen's
eyes — to become at times a strange,
heartless demon with a passion for
destroying every fine emotion.

Helen had tried to make him stop
work, and take the rest that would
lead in time to his recovery. She
had begged and pleaded and threat-
ened and cajoled. She'd tried every-
thing a resourceful, clever woman
could think of. And each time
Drew's love of Sentinel Studios, his

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Drew was making idle gestures amongst the papers on
the big desk, picking up and putting down the phone.

driving, burning ambition, had
driven him back to the harness of
work before the cure had had a
chance to set in.

At last she had seen that this
overweening ambition of Drew's
would always stand between them.
To him it was more valuable than
her, or marriage, or the family they
wanted. Helen came to realize that
happiness for her and Drew in mar-
riage was a lost and lonely dream.
For a time she sustained this dream
stubbornly and drew nourishment
and will from it, but then she saw
the tragedy and hopelessness, and
suddenly her love and emotion had
grown cold. She only wanted to be

alone, to think, to read, to talk to
friends. And yes, to help Drew
get well again. And perhaps then? —
But she didn't know. Let happen
what will happen, she had thought.

So it was with a heart filled with
compassion and the great under-
standing of a woman who has faced
much and seen much, but who re-
mained vital and firm and healthy,
that she drove that day to Santa
Barbara.

The hospital grounds were wide
and well kept, the buildings spot-
less and extremely comfortable. Dr.
Spear met Helen at the door and
took her into his office. "I'm glad
you've come, Mrs. Trent," he said.

"Mr. Sinclair has asked for you in
his lucid moments, and I've taken
the liberty of telling him that you
would come today. He's waiting for
you."

"How is he?" Helen asked anx-
iously. "Does he — are his lucid
moments far apart?"

"Now, now," Dr. Spear said re-
assuringly. "He's better. He may
seem worse to you, but at first the
treatment frequently has that effect.
He may not know you, but stay with
him a while, Mrs. Trent, and I think
he'll become normal."

"Yes, yes, I will!"

The door of Drew's pleasant room
swung open. "I'll leave you now,"
the doctor whispered. "Talk to him,
Mrs. Trent, say anything."

Helen's heart leaped up into her
throat, and tears stung at the back
of her eyes. Drew had taken the
small writing desk and placed it out
in the center of the room. He sat
behind it, his back to the window.
Helen remembered suddenly that
always his office had been arranged
like this, with the daylight coming
over his left shoulder when he sat
at the desk.

"Drew," she gasped. "Drew!"

He looked up, and a flash of an-
noyance crossed his dark face, thin
now, and worn by the ravages of
his sick mind, but still forceful and
handsome. "You're late, Miss Turn-
er," he said. "I rang ten minutes
ago. I cannot have this delay. When
I ring you are to come immediately.
Drop everything and come. That is
what I pay you for, and it must be
that way. Now — "

"Drew," Helen said slowly, care-
fully, trying to make each word
penetrate and stick in his mind. "It's
Helen, Drew! Helen. Try to re-
member."

"Oh, Miss Anthony," Drew said.
"I'm sorry. The light is poor in here.
I thought you were my secretary.
Please sit down."

"Drew, it's Helen!"

"Yes, of course. Please sit down,
Miss Anthony. How is Helen? It's
been a long time since I've seen
Helen. Tell me about her."

"Drew! Don't you know me?"

"Miss Turner, I wish you'd get
ready to take dictation. I have a
story idea I want to get down while
it's still fresh. Now please!"

Helen crossed the room to him
and took one of his hands in hers.
It was quick and nervous and hot
in her grasp.

"Yes, of course," Drew said. "I'd
forgotten the costumes for a mo-
ment. Send for Miss Trent."

"I'm here!" Helen gasped, fight-
ing to keep back the tears. "I'm
Helen! Oh, Drew dear, don't you
know me? Please say you know

AUGUST, 1941

toward the sunlight streaming into
the wide-windowed room. "Don't
wake me up," he said. "When will
we be married?"

"As soon as we can," Helen said.

"Sooner," he insisted. "Much
sooner than that! And let's tell some
people right away. Let's go oyer
and tell Miss Anthony. Let's tell
everybody!"

"Yes!" Helen breathed. "I want
to, too." Her fine face grew serious
then, and even in the bright room a
shadow seemed to cross it.

BUT, Gil," she said, "there's
something we must talk about
first — something we must discuss."
"Drew Sinclair," Gil said quickly.
"Yes," Helen said. "Drew Sinclair.
And please, Gil, try to understand.
Drew and I were almost married
once. We were engaged for two
years, ind I can't forget him easily."
Gil nodded, his troubled glance
fixed on the green carpet, but he
said nothing.

"I want to go to the sanitarium,
Gil, and see him once more."

"He'll never get well," Gil said
slowly. "He'll be there all the rest of
his life. Leave him alone, Helen. If
you love me, don't go!"

"It's because I love you that I
must go. Please understand." Helen
cried. "I must go because it's the
only way for us to be happy."

Fletlonhed from the serial en
CBS at 12:30 P.M., E.D.T., spon-
sored by Edna Wallace Hopper.
Photographs posed by Virginia
Clark at Helen, Marvin Mueller
at Gil and Reese Taylor as Drew.

The next day Helen drove to
Santa Barbara. The drive was long
and lonely. As the mUes slipped
slowly behind her, Helen's thoughts
turned insistently to Drew Sinclair.
Drew! She thought of the first time
she'd seen him— that day four years
ago at Sentinel Studios, How hand-
some and fine he had been! How
quick to understand her costume
ideas, how ready with praise and
chary with criticism. To him, Helen
felt she owed most of what she had
become as top studio designer in
Hollywood.

Drew was makinq idle ae<+M»>,

wanted again. And Drew's sudden,
vicious attacks of migraine head-
aches that had first driven him to
frenzy and later to the powerful
sedative. Then had come liquor to
counteract the sedative, and Drew
began to break up, under Helens
eyes — to become at times a strange
heartless demon with a passion for
destroying every fine emotion.

RADIO AND TELEVISION

IHDW°"

driving, burning ambition, had
driven him back to the harness of
work before the cure had had a
chance to set in.

At last she had seen that this
overweening ambition of Drew's
would always stand between them,
■lo him it was more valuable than
her, or marriage, or the family they
wanted. Helen came to realize that
nappmess for her and Drew in mar-
riage was a lost and lonely dream.

°T* tlme she sustained this dream
stubbornly and drew nourishment
ana will from it, but then she saw
«,L ,fiedy and hopelessness, and
suddenly her love and emotion had
srown cold. She only wanted to be

ADGOST, 1941

alone, to think, to read, to talk to
friends. And yes, to help Drew
get well again. And perhaps then?—
But she didn't know. Let happen
what will happen, she had thought.
So it was with a heart filled with
compassion and the great under-
standing of a woman who has faced
much and seen much, but who re-
mained vital and firm and healthy,
that she drove that day to Santa
Barbara.

Mr Sinclair has asked for you in
his ucid moments, and I've taken
the hberty of telling him that you
would come today. He's waiting for

. "How is he?" Helen asked anx-

Z^ ♦ '?°es hfr-ar* ^s ludd
moments far apart'"

"Now now," Dr. Spear said re-
assuringly. "He's better. He may
seem worse to you, but at first the
treatment frequently has that effect.
He may not know you, but stay with
him a white, Mrs. Trent, and I think
neu become normal."
"Yes, yes, I will!"
The door of Drew's pleasant room
swung open. "I'll leave you now,"
the doctor whispered. "Talk to him
Mrs. Trent, say anything."

"Drew," she gasped. "Drew!"
He looked up, and a flash of an-
noyance crossed his dark face, thin
now, and worn by the ravages of
his sick mind, but still forceful and
handsome. "You're late, Miss Turn-
er," he said. "I rang ten minutes
ago. I cannot have this delay. When
I ring you are to come immediately.
Drop everything and come. That is
what I pay you for, and it must be
that way. Now — "

"Drew," Helen said slowly, care-
fully, trying to make each word
penetrate and stick in his mind. "It's
Helen, Drew! Helen. Try to re-
member."

"Oh, Miss Anthony," Drew said.
"I'm sorry. The light is poor in here.
I thought you were my secretary.
Please sit down."
"Drew, it's Helen!"
"Yes, of course. Please sit down,
Miss Anthony. How is Helen? It's
been a long time since I've seen
Helen. Tell me about her."
"Drew! Don't you know me?"
"Miss Turner, I wish you'd get
ready to take dictation. I have a
story idea I want to get down while
it's still fresh. Now please!"

Helen crossed the room to him
and took one of his hands in hers.
It was quick and nervous and hot
in her grasp.

"Yes, of course," Drew said. "I'd
forgotten the costumes for a mo-
ment. Send for Miss Trent."

"I'm here!" Helen gasped, fight-
ing to keep back the tears. "I'm
Helen! Oh, Drew dear, don't you
know me? Please say you know

me. Look at me! Feel my hand!
I'm flesh and blood! Don't you re-
member? We were engaged to be
married. I was — I was your fiancee!"

Drew's head slumped forward de-
jectedly to his breast. His hand
slipped away from Helen's and fell
to the desk. The breath heaved
into his lungs, and when he spoke
the words came out as though they
were forced up from a great depth.
"I'm ruined," he said. Helen had to
bend forward to hear. "They've all
gone. Rats from a ship. I'm sink-
ing. Sure I'm sinking. Any man has
a right to sink. Helen! Now there
was a woman! She wouldn't desert
a man when he's down and out. Not
Helen! Oh, no. Where is Helen?
Miss Turner, get Mrs. Trent on the
'phone."

"Drew, Drew!" Helen was weep-
ing now, openly, the tears stream-
ing down her face. "I'm here. I'm
Helen. Look at me." She pressed
his hand convulsively.

"It's funny," Drew said. "I was
generous when I had it. Now I'm
broke, nobody knows me anymore.
I used to see movies like that, but
I never thought they were true. No,
I never thought it. They just fade
away. All of them. Like the flowers
in the fall. But not Helen."

HELEN stood up and turned her
back. She went to the window,
but through her tears she saw noth-
ing of the lovely afternoon. She
pressed her forehead against the
hard wood of the frame, pressed it
harder, until the pressure brought
pain, and she could feel the dull
ache above the ache in her heart.
Behind her Drew kept up the sense-
less, ceaseless monologue, pretend-
ing and believing that he was still an
executive with power and ability
and dignity. Dignity! Yes, that was
what she missed in him. The dig-
nity of a person who knows his
ability, and respects it, and uses it!
Again Helen sat with him. She
talked to him, and mentioned her
name over and over. Each time
Drew addressed her by a different
name, and plunged again into the
vague obscurity of his mind. Once
the doctor looked in. Helen went

quietly to the door and asked that
they be left alone a while longer.

Drew sat back and dictated long
letters to her. He gave her instruc-
tions about budgets and pictures
under production, and ideas for new
ones. Not once did a gleam of recog-
nition come into his eyes.

Then at the end, after she had
struggled and fought against the
sickness in his mind until her body
ached with hopelessness, she began
to see that Gil Whitney was right.
Drew would never get well! For the
first time she accepted the fact with
all its implications. She saw that
the best intentions and the highest
devotion could do nothing against
this sickness of Drew's soul. Gil
Whitney's calm, sane, ordered mind,
beside Drew's hot, feverish, discon-
nected jumble, assumed in Helen's
mind the rare delights of a safe
haven. She must leave, she must
get away! She must have air to
breathe in; room to think, and
understand! It will be better, she
told herself. I can't help Drew —
and now — now I love Gil. Gil! So
safe. So sure. So understanding.

"Drew," she said. "Please. Listen
to me and try to understand. I
must leave now, and I want you to
know that you'll always have every
bit of blessing I can give you — "

Drew bit his lip, and a giant hand
of good seemed to pass over his
face. One moment he was strained,
nervous, the wide forehead tor-
tured into lines of difficult concen-
tration. The next moment his face
cleared, became younger, firmer,
surer.

"Helen," he said. "I knew you'd
come. I've been expecting you. Let
me take your coat. Oh, it's so good
to see you, darling!"

He got up and led Helen to a
chair. Then he took her in his arms,
holding her close, until Helen felt
again the clean, hard strength of his
body and the firmness of his arms
around her. He kissed her avidly.

To Helen it was a profound shock.
The real Drew — the one she knew —
had been hidden in the innermost
recesses of a sick mind, and now had
emerged into the world again so
suddenly that Helen sat immobile,

speechless, confused, not able for
a moment to grasp the situation.

"Say something, darling," he said.

"Drew!" she gasped. It was all
she could say.

HE made her sit down on the small
couch, and sat close beside
her. "Helen," he said. "I've almost
prayed that you'd come this week.
I've been wanting to tell you for a
long time how much it means to
me that you've promised to wait
for me — "

"But—"

"Now wait," he said. "Wait until
I finish. You know how it is, you
must know. I was what they call a
big shot, just a little while ago, and
then I had more friends than I
could use. Now I have nothing to
give away — no jobs, no big salaries,
no contracts, no careers in the
movies. And now I have no friends.
Only you. And that belief of yours,
that determination you have to see
me get well is the one hope I have.
Don't you see?"

"Yes, Drew, I see," Helen mur-
mured. How could she tell him
now that she and Gil were in love
and wanted to marry? No it was
impossible. She would leave now
and write him a long letter — a let-
ter to be given to him only when
he was in full command of himself.

It was difficult to tear herself
away. Helen thought it was the
hardest thing she had ever done.

And driving back alone in the
car, down the smooth, winding
roads, the hum of the engine, and
the rush of the wind made a fitting
background for Helen's insistent
thoughts. How could she ever deny
Drew that one scrap of comfort he
still possessed? To tell him now that
she was going to marry Gil Whitney
would be like snatching a line from
a drowning man. Helen tried. She
made up phrases to use in the letter
she would write to Drew. She tried
to shape and guide the conversation
they might have. Her hands gripped
tighter on the steering wheel until
the dull pain of drawn muscles
penetrated to her mind. She was
just entering Los Angeles.

(Continued on page 63)

*&(E*%*~3^ fcPp

~ *■*■ ,

co*!

i»&*

its**.

Ireene Wicker, the Singing
Lady, is heard five times
a week in her own program
on NBC-Blue, at 5:00 P.M..
E.D.T.. and in Deadline
Dramas, on Sundays at 10:30
P.M.. E.D.T., on the NBC-Red.

They found their love in gypsy songs, in symphonies, in yellow roses,
in flickering firelight, and so they were married. But the romance
of lovely Ireene Wicker and Victor Hammer wasn't really that simple

IREENE WICKER stood in the
doorway pulling on her pale
suede gloves.

"Mr. Victor Hammer is coming
this afternoon," she told her secre-
tary, "to give you material for the
program I'm going to do about a
little Russian prince. It's the Ham-
mer family, you know, who brought
over all those Russian treasures
we've been reading so much about."
She paused, smiled. "Better have
your nose powdered! I hear Mr.
Victor's very charming!"

She was off then ... To tell her
cook about dinner. To say good-bye
to her son, Charlie, growing up so
fast and so intelligently he brought
a silly lump to her throat. To hold
Nancy, younger and vulnerable, in
her arms for an extra minute or two.
When she returned it was late

AUGUST, 1941

afternoon but her secretary was
waiting. "Everything you heard is
true," she declared. "Everything!"
The affairs of the day had
crowded the Hammer visit from
Ireene's mind. She looked puzzled.
"Everything you heard about Mr.
Hammer," her secretary explained.
"And it's easy to see you haven't
met him! You won't forget him

The lovely home Victor is going
to build for Ireene in New York's
beautiful Westchester County.

when you do!"

Idle words, they seemed, but they
were a prophesy.

The program about the little Rus-
sian prince met with great success.
The studio staff gathered around
Ireene with praise and enthusiasm.

"Miss Wicker ..." A man from the
publicity department made his way
toward her. "Mr. Victor Hammer
is here. He has asked to meet you."

"Splendid!" Ireene said. "I can
thank him for all the help he gave
me."

They liked each other immedi-
ately, Ireene and Victor. And the
following evening he dined with
Ireene and her husband and sang
for them — gypsy songs he'd learned
in Russia, accompanied by his guitar.

It was very pleasant. But when
Ireene and (Continued on page 76)

/isba&t

Begin in vivid story form the radio drama of a doctor's marriage —
Ann so lovely, hating this suspicion that was strangling her love,
Jerry so bewildered between his wife and Veronica, no man's wife

JeRRY MALONE felt himself
growing tense with irritation. He
looked at Ann, sitting beside him,
her head turned a little away so
that all he could see was the deli-
cate, aloof line of her cheek and
chin. For a moment, it was hard
to remember that she was his wife.
She seemed — different, somehow, a
person he hardly knew and didn't
understand at all.

Until now, they'd always talked
things over, frankly and fully, and
he'd been upheld by the knowledge
of her approval. It wasn't fair of
her to act this way when, after all,
if he did go in with Dunham, it
would be more for her sake than
for his own, more because he
wanted her to have all the things she
deserved than for any other reason.

And this apartment — ! A tiny
living room so close to the street
that trucks and cars seemed to run
right through it, a tinier bedroom
on a court, and a completely insig-
nificant bathroom and kitchen. Bun
had to sleep in the living room, on
the slightly moth-eaten sofa they'd
bought in a second-hand store on
Greenwich Avenue. He kept his
clothes partly in the hall closet and
partly in the bedroom chest of
drawers. It wasn't good for a grow-
ing boy not to have a room of his
own.

You couldn't blame a man, Jerry
thought, if he wanted to seize an
opportunity to make enough money
so he could afford a really comfort-
able place to live, and good clothes
for his wife.

Yet Ann appeared to blame him.

"And there's the baby on its way,"
he said defensively. "If I took up
Dunham's proposition, we could
bring Penny on from Belmore, to
help you."

"Yes," Ann said, but not as if she
were really assenting to Jerry's
statement. She might have pointed
out, but didn't, that they had come
to New York in the first place be-
cause Jerry wanted to do research
and clinical work; not to get him a
partnership in the exclusive Dun-
ham Sanitarium.

Franklin Hospital, that gloomy
castle of medicine on the East Side,
had offered Jerry his chance at re-
search, but it hadn't offered much of
anything else, either financially or
for the future. That hadn't mat-
tered, at the time. It wouldn't mat-
ter now, if Jerry hadn't happened to
operate on Mrs. Jessie Hughes.

Mrs. Hughes was old and rich and
autocratic and more than a little
peculiar in her ways. It was typical
of her that although she could have
afforded the fees of a luxurious hos-
pital she came to the Franklin for
her operation. She liked Jerry be-
cause he paid no attention to her
tantrums and ended up by making
her well again. She wanted to do
something for him, and since he
wouldn't let her loan him the money
to set himself up in practice, she
had introduced him to her friend
Dr. Dunham, who ran a private hos-
pital and was looking for a partner.
Perhaps, Jerry guessed uneasily, she
had offered to invest some money in
Dunham's hospital. But at any rate,
Dunham had offered Jerry the part-
nership.

The Dunham Sanitarium was a
misleadingly modest brownstone
building in the East Seventies. It
didn't even look like a hospital.
But Jerry had seen its books, and
he had gasped at the names of some
of its patients, and at all the fees
those patients had paid. Social
Register, Hollywood, and Broadway
all came there to have their ills,
both real and fancied, pampered
away. Jerry disapproved of the sort
of medicine the Dunham Sanitarium
symbolized — but at the same time,
amazingly, he liked Dunham and
respected his sincerity.

There was a way to compromise,
to have a decent life for yourself
and still serve medicine humbly and
honestly. Dunham cynically ac-
cepted thousands of dollars from
overfed dowagers whose only real
illness was boredom; but, Jerry
knew, he also spent hours every day
at a clinic, giving his very consid-
erable skill for a payment of pre-
cisely nothing. The one made it
possible for him to do the other, and
still provide for himself and his
wife the comforts of gracious living.
And so it could be done, without
loss of self-respect or integrity.
But—

He had pointed all this out to
Ann, and still she was not con-
vinced. She wouldn't say anything
against it; she simply withheld her
enthusiasm and let him create for
himself all the arguments she might
have advanced: that he was letting
himself be seduced by money, that
he would be bored to death with un-
important illnesses, that — in a word
— this wasn't good enough for him.
Jerry sighed, and said rather
curtly, "Well, anyway, we won't
decide anything until after tonight.
I think you'll like Dunham when

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

You couldn't blame a man,
Jerry thought, if he wanted
to seize an opportunity to
make enough money to pro-
vide comfortably for his wife.

J*<

*fi

% ■ V

Flctionlied from ike radio serial board
dairy of 2 P.M., E.D.T.. evor CM fro-
broadcast at 2 P.M., Pacific 77«ol aid
sponsored by Post Toast les. Photos posed
by Elizabeth Keller as Ana. Mom foico
os Dr. Ma/oio aad Toss Sheenan as Penny.

'.#♦•♦* ••

• V"

you get to know him better."
"Jerry," Ann said carefully, "I
think maybe you'd better go to Dr.
Dunham's alone. It's — nice of him
to ask us both to dinner, but I don't
feel very well and — and I'd just
rather not, that's all."

OH, Lord!" Jerry groaned — and
a second later was ashamed
of his impatience. A doctor, at least,
ought to know enough to be patient
with a wife who was going to have
a baby. When you came right down
to it, that simple physiological fact
was probably at the root of Ann's
whole attitude just now. She was
bound to be whimsical and — and
strange. And probably she was be-
ginning— quite without justification
— to be sensitive about her ap-
pearance.

"All right, dear," he said gently.
"If you'd rather not. I'll call Dun-
ham now and beg off for you."

He went into the bedroom to
telephone and dress, and Ann bowed
her head suddenly. She was right,
then. Jerry didn't really want her
to go to Dunharn's dinner-party
with him. He'd be ashamed of her,
there beside the brittle, professional
beauty of Mrs. Dunham. She didn't
want to go, actually — but she did
wish Jerry had begged her to.

When Jerry had left the apart-
ment, looking unbelievably clean
and man-about-townish in his tux
that was five years old, she went into
the kitchen and fixed supper for
herself and Bun, who had come in
from school some time before and
now was exploring this New York
that was still so new to him. Bun
was fifteen, growing so fast he
seemed to add inches overnight.
Jerry had adopted him, unofficially,
back in Belmore, before he and Ann
were married. Ann had wondered
what married life would be like
with an adolescent son already pro-
vided. Now she couldn't conceive of
an existence without him. The baby,
when it came, surely couldn't be
much more her own child than Bun.

Thinking of the baby, she smiled,
and felt much happier. She was
able to see Jerry's side of the Sani-
tarium proposal. It was perfectly
natural for a man — a man who was
soon to be a father — to look for
financial security. Jerry had proved,
many times, that as far as he was
concerned a single cluttered room
was ample living quarters; but he
wanted to give her things — her and
the baby.

The trouble was that she had no
logical arguments against going in
with Dunham. If Jerry wanted it,
that was his business. He could still
do clinical work, as Dunham did —
not so much of it, perhaps, but
22

some. Outwardly, it would be a
good move, an opportunity most
young doctors prayed for.

She only knew he should refuse
it. She didn't know why. Her knowl-
edge went beyond reason. It simply
would not be good for him to be-
come Dr. Dunham's partner. It
wouldn't be good for him, and it
wouldn't be good for their happi-
ness together. Her instinct, and
nothing more, told her this.

She was still awake, lying in bed
and trying to read, when Jerry re-
turned soon after midnight. But
the hours of being alone, after Bun
went to bed, had done something to
her. She still knew Jerry should
not accept Dunham's offer, but she
also knew with certainty that he
would. This being so, she must ac-
cept his decision, not worry him
with her disapproval.

He bent over and kissed her.
"Have a nice time?" she asked
lightly.

Ann nodded, smiling.

"You know," he said seriously,
"I really like Dunham. He isn't
just a society doctor; he knows
medicine and he's a human being,
not a stuffed shirt."

"Yes, darling. I like him too."
And that, she realized, was true
enough. Unfortunately, it wasn't
the point. Liking Dunham still
didn't mean that Jerry should be-
come his partner.

Jerry sat down on the edge of the
bed, taking her hand. "I missed you
tonight, honey. You should have
come."

"But it wasn't a big party. Just
Dunham and his wife and her sis-
ter— She's nice, the sister," he said.
"Friendly, and witty. Her name's
Mrs. Farrell."

"Wasn't her husband there?"

"Oh — she's a divorcee, I think,"
Jerry said as he got up to finish
undressing.

Ann was to wonder, afterward,
why this first mention of Veronica
Farrell had not pierced her heart
like a barbed arrow.

Nowhere in the world except
New York, it seemed to Ann, could
you surround a simple change

of residence with so many com-
plexities. Several visits to second-
hand stores to discuss the sale of the
furniture they had so recently
bought, conferences with moving
men, decisions as to what to take
and what to get rid of —

For it seemed that Veronica Far-
rell was going South in a month or
so, and wanted to sublet them her
own apartment on Park Avenue.

Jerry and Ann went up one eve-
ning to see the apartment. Five
rooms, two baths, a maid in black
and starchy white, furniture which
spoke exclusive little shops along
Madison Avenue . . . and Mrs.
Farrell.

She was nice, Ann thought, just
as Jerry had said. She was slim and
dark, and so perfectly dressed in a
simple black gown that you didn't
realize how very much the dress
had cc ,. She showed them the
apartment in an absent-minded
way, as if it were something that
didn't belong to her, and when Ann
breathed embarrassedly, "But it's
so lovely! I'm sure we couldn't af-
ford it!" she laughed and said, "I'm
so anxious to get people I know and

like in here I'm almost willing to
pay you, instead of the other way
around."

However, when they finally de-
cided to take it, the monthly rental
was a sum that made Ann gasp.

Jerry took it very calmly. She
couldn't know that inwardly he was
gasping too. But Dunham had men-
tioned an income that seemed just
as exorbitant, and everyone obvi-
ously expected him to move into a
home suitable to his position as as-
sistant director of Dunham Sani-
tarium, so — And it would be nice
for Ann, once she got used to it.

On the way home, Ann said, "I
like Mrs. Farrell. She's so . . .
beautiful."

"Mmm," Jerry said absently. The
bus jolted over a cobbled street.
"We'll have to buy a little car,"
Jerry said.

Ann turned in the worn wicker
seat of the bus — turned toward
Jerry, urgently. "Darling — I know
I'm being silly, asking this. But I —
need reassurance, I guess. You won't
let everything that's happening
make any difference, will you?"

"Difference?" Jerry's clear blue

eyes were a little puzzled, a little
amused.

"I mean — difference in the way
you feel about me. No, I don't mean
quite that, either. In the way you
feel about yourself, maybe, and
about your work. You won't let it
change you in any way, not the
smallest little bit?"

"I might buy a new suit," Jerry
said,' laughing; and although she
laughed too, she was disappointed
because she knew he did not under-
stand what she had tried to say. Or,
possibly, he did not wish to under-
stand.

Penny was sent for the week be-
fore they moved and arrived, chirp-
ing with excitement, in Grand Cen-
tral Station. Penny was really Mrs.
Hettie Penny, but most people had
forgotten that. She had been Jerry's
housekeeper before he and Ann
were married. Tiny, bright-eyed
and gray-haired, she was fanati-
cally loyal to Jerry and Ann, her
two "children," and obviously con-
sidered their romance and marriage
something she had thought up and
created all by herself.

Once Ann would have plunged

Jerry's face fell. "If won'f
be fun without you." But Ann
insisted, "Please go alone. I
really don't feel well enough."

eagerly into the job of moving and
getting settled in a new place. Now
she felt languid, listless and watched
Penny bustling around — knowing
she should help and yet unwilling
to lift a finger. Penny calmed her
halfhearted protests: "Now, Ann,
you just rest. Land, I know how it
is when you're going to have a baby
— you feel's if you're no good to
anybody."

That was precisely the way to ex-
press it, Ann thought. No good to
anybody. She fought against self-
pity, but in spite of herself it crept
in to color her reactions to every-
thing. There was the night, soon
after they'd moved, when Jerry
came home to announce that they'd
both been invited to a week-end
party on Long Island, at the estate
of a Mrs. Smythe, who had recently
left the Sanitarium.

"I almost fell over when she in-
vited me," Jerry confessed. "She
wanted Dunham and his wife to
come too, but he's going to Detroit
and can't . . . I'm not much on this
society stuff, but maybe we'll have
fun?"

"Jerry! You didn't accept?"

"Well," he said, "I did try to
crawl out of it, but Dunham hinted
one of us ought to be there — sort
of keep up the sanitarium's con-
tacts."

Ann made a gesture of distaste.
They were in the bedroom; Ann, in
a negligee, was lying on the chaise
longue. Penny, pampering Ann to
her heart's content, had insisted that
she'd serve their dinner in here.

"Well," Jerry said doubtfully, "I
could make some kind of an excuse.
I mean — we don't have to go."

Oddly, it didn't occur to either of
them that they had been through all
this before, on the night of Dun-
ham's dinner-party.

"You go alone, Jerry. That's the
best plan."

Jerry's face fell. "Aw, Ann — that
wouldn't be any fun. I don't want to
go if you don't. Come on — you'll
enjoy it."

"Even if I felt well — and I don't
— I don't think I'd enjoy that kind
of a party. I wouldn't feel as if I —
belonged."

"I don't see why not," Jerry said
stiffly. "You're just as good as any
of those clothes-horses."

In a minute, Ann warned herself,
this would develop into a quarrel.
And Penny was just entering the
room, carrying a tray. So Ann
smiled and said, "I know I am dear.
But please — I'd really rather not go.
I just don't feel like it. But I do
want you to."

Finally she persuaded him to do
as she said. But it was strange:
once again (Continued on page 46)

you get to know him better."
"Jerry," Ann said carefully, I
think maybe you'd better go to Dr.
Dunham's alone. It's— nice of him
to ask us both to dinner, but I don t
feel very well and— and Id just
rather not, that's all."

OH, Lord!" Jerry groaned— and
a second later was ashamed
of his impatience. A doctor, at least
ought to know enough to be patient
with a wife who was going to have
a baby. When you came right down
to it, that simple physiological fact
was probably at the root of Ann's
whole attitude just now. She was
bound to be whimsical and— and
strange. And probably she was be-
ginning—quite without justification
to be sensitive about her ap-
pearance.

"All right, dear," he said gently.
"If you'd rather not. I'll call Dun-
ham now and beg off for you."

He went into the bedroom to
telephone and dress, and Ann bowed
her head suddenly. She was right,
then. Jerry didn't really want her
to go to Dunham's dinner-party
with him. He'd be ashamed of her,
there beside the brittle, professional
beauty of Mrs. Dunham. She didn't
want to go, actually — but she did
wish Jerry had begged her to.

some. Outwardly, it would be a

good move, an opportunity most

young doctors prayed for.

y Shi only knew he should refuse

it She didn't know why. Her knowl-
edge went beyond reason. It simply
would not be good for him to be-
come Dr. Dunham's partner It
wouldn't be good for him, and it
wouldn't be good for their happi-
ness together. Her instinct, and
nothing more, told her this.

He bent over and kissed her.
"Have a nice time?" she asked

lightly. . , t

"Fine." He took off his jacket and
vest, tossed them on a chair, and
began to pick at the studs of his
collar. Her love for him made her
sensitive to the excitement that ran
like a strong current underneath his
casualness. "I — I practically told
Dunham I'd go in with him."
Ann nodded, smiling.
"You know," he said seriously,
"I really like Dunham. He isn't
just a society doctor; he knows
medicine and he's a human being,
not a stuffed shirt."

"Yes, darling. I like him too."
And that, she realized, was true
enough. Unfortunately, it wasn't
the point. Liking Dunham still
didn't mean that Jerry should be-
come his partner.

Jerry sat down on the edge of the
bed, taking her hand. "I missed you
tonight, honey. You should have
come."

His sincerity warmed her, and she
felt the constraint of their conversa-
tion that afternoon ebbing away.
"I guess it was silly of me not to,"
she admitted. "I just — felt scared.
It seemed too much of an effort . . .
meeting all those new people . . ."
"But it wasn't a big party. Just
Dunham and his wife and her sis-
ter— She's nice, the sister," he said.
"Friendly, and witty. Her name's
Mrs. Farrell."

"Wasn't her husband there?"
"Oh — she's a divorcee, I think,"
Jerry said as he got up to finish
undressing.

Ann was to wonder, afterward,
why this first mention of Veronica
Farrell had not pierced her heart
like a barbed arrow.

Nowhere in the world except
New York, it seemed to Ann, could
you surround a simple change

For it seemed that Veronica Far-
rell was going South in a month or
so, and wanted to sublet them her
own apartment on Park Avenue.

She was nice, Ann thought, just
as Jerry had said. She was slim and
dark, and so perfectly dressed in a
simple black gown that you didn't
realize how very much the dress
had cr ,. She showed them the
apartment in an absent-minded
way, as if it were something that
didn't belong to her, and when Ann
breathed embarrassedly, "But it's
so lovely! I'm sure we couldn't af-
ford it!" she laughed and said, "I'm
so anxious to get people I know and

like in here I'm almost willing to
pay you, instead of the other way
around."

However, when they finally de-
cided to take it, the monthly rental
was a sum that made Ann gasp.

Jerry took it very calmly. She
couldn't know that inwardly he was
gasping too. But Dunham had men-
tioned an income that seemed just
as exorbitant, and everyone obvi-
ously expected him to move into a
home suitable to his position as as-
sistant director of Dunham Sani-
tarium, so— And it would be nice
for Ann, once she got used to it.

On the way home, Ann said, "I
like Mrs. Farrell. She's so
beautiful."

"Mmm," Jerry said absently. The
bus jolted over a cobbled street.
"We'll have to buy a little car,"
Jerry said.

Ann turned in the worn wicker
seat of the bus — turned toward
Jerry, urgently. "Darling — I know
I'm being silly, asking this. But I—
need reassurance, I guess. You won't
let everything that's happening
make any difference, will you?"
"Difference?" Jerry's clear blue

Jerry's face fell. "If won't
be fun without you." But Ann
insisted, "Please go alone. I

eyes were a little puzzled, a little
amused. ™»*ms

"I mean— difference in the wav
you feel about me. No, I don't mean

quitethat, either. In 'the way y^u
feel about yourself, maybe, and
about your work. You won't let it
change you in any way, not the
smallest little bit?"

"I might buy a new suit," Jerry
said, laughing; and although she
laughed too, she was disappointed
because she knew he did not under-
stand what she had tried to say Or
possibly, he did not wish to under-
stand.

Penny was sent for the week be-
fore they moved and arrived, chirp-
ing with excitement, in Grand Cen-
tral Station. Penny was really Mrs
Hettie Penny, but most people had
forgotten that. She had been Jerry's
housekeeper before he and Ann
were married. Tiny, bright-eyed
and gray-haired, she was fanati-
cally loyal to Jerry and Ann, her
two "children," and obviously con-
sidered their romance and marriage
something she had thought up and
created all by herself.

Once Ann would have plunged

eagerly into the job of moving and
getting settled in a new place Now
she felt languid, listless and watched
r-enny bustling around— knowing
she should help and yet unwilling
to lift a finger. Penny calmed her
halfhearted protests: "Now Ann
you just rest. Land, I know how it
is when you're going to have a baby
—you feel's if you're no good to
anybody."

That was precisely the way to ex-
Press it, Ann thought. No good to
anybody. She fought against self-
Pity, but in spite of herself it crept
in to color her reactions to every-
thing. There was the night, soon
after they'd moved, when Jerry
came home to announce that they'd
both been invited to a week-end
party on Long Island, at the estate
of a Mrs. Smythe, who had recently
left the Sanitarium.

"I almost fell over when she in-
vited me," Jerry confessed. "She
wanted Dunham and his wife to
come too, but he's going to Detroit
and can't ... I'm not much on this
society stuff, but maybe we'll have
fun?"

"Jerry! You didn't accept?"
"Well," he said, "I did try to
crawl out of it, but Dunham hinted
one of us ought to be there— sort
of keep up the sanitarium's con-
tacts."

"Well," Jerry said doubtfully, "I
could make some kind of an excuse.
I mean — we don't have to go."

Oddly, it didn't occur to either of
them that they had been through all
this before, on the night of Dun-
ham's dinner-party.

"You go alone, Jerry. That's the
best plan."

Jerry's face fell. "Aw, Ann — that
wouldn't be any fun. I don't want to
go if you don't. Come on — you'll
enjoy it."

"Even if I felt well— and I don't
— I don't think I'd enjoy that kind
of a party. I wouldn't feel as if I —
belonged."

"I don't see why not," Jerry said
stiffly. "You're just as good as any
of those clothes-horses."

Finally she persuaded him to do
as she said. But it was strange:
once again (Continued on page 46)

Tun. in The Goldb.ra. on NBC-Red, 11:30 A.M., and on CBS at 5:15 P.M.. E.D.T.-Photos specially taken by CBS-Seigal

PRESENTING

(r)°

Rosalie Goldberg (left), Molly's
"Rosie," is a beautiful, very sweet girl
of sixteen. She was only nine years old
when you first met the Goldbergs. A
few years later, Rosalie discovered a
great love for a musician named Mr.
Khune, a man three times her age. It
was a silly "crush," but Molly was sym-
pathetic and understanding. She helped
Rosie over this trying age and taught
her many things about life and the
people around her. When Rosalie once
went to the hospital for an operation,
Jake became frantic and Sammy hys-
terical. Molly had more trouble with
them than she had nursing Rosie
back to health. Rosalie is a smart
girl, but sometimes lets her school
work slide and Molly has to lecture
her. Under Molly's guidance she'll un-
doubtedly develop into a wise young lady.
(Played by Rosalyn Silber)

Seymour Fingerhood (right) exploded
into the quietness of Lastenbury like
a giant firecracker. This breezy,
fast talking youngster decided to come
and get a job working in Jake's silk
mill. That he wasn't needed there was
irrelevant and immaterial. He felt
that since his cousin, Joe Banner, was
a business partner of Jake's he was en-
titled to a job. He swept over the
Goldbergs like a cyclone and before
they knew it he had the job in the
mill that he wanted. In a few months
he was like one of the family. Al-
though the Goldbergs acted ruffled,
they all secretly liked Seymour. The
only one genuinely irked by him was
Rosalie. He forced his attentions on
her, following her constantly, always
trying to proclaim his love. Rosie
has never given him a tumble. Seymour
is hard on the nerves — but you like him.
(Played by Arnold Stang)

omSe^as

IN LIVING PORTRAITS

The pictures of the month! Meet the whole Goldberg air family —
the same lovable people you hear and enjoy every Monday through
Friday on the famous serial, sponsored by the makers of Duz

Molly Goldberg's main aim in life has always been to make a good home for her husband and children. When we first
met the Goldbergs they lived in a two-room walk-up apartment in the Bronx. Molly was contented with life, but Jake
had big ideas, so she saved pennies to help him get into the contracting business. Success turned Jake's head, and
the Goldbergs moved to a fancy apartment on Riverside Drive. Then, when Jake lost all his money in a real estate
deal and fell ill, Molly managed to get a little house in Lastenbury, Connecticut, and nurse him back to health,
taking in boarders and raising chickens to support her family. Then a friend of Jake's in South Carolina sent his
daughter, Sylvia Allison, to live with the Goldbergs. Molly was suspicious of Sylvia from the first and when
Sammy fell in love with the girl and followed her down South, Molly insisted on visiting the Allisons. Her suspicions
about the girl were verified and Sammy broke off his engagement. Now back in Lastenbury, Molly is helping
Sammy forget Sylvia and in her sweet, gentle way is still trying to make a better life for her little family.

26 (Played h GeTtrUde BerZ) RADIO AND TELEVISION VfOKO*

i ■ ■■»! *■— ^x ■ ■ ■ ■ wtm-*mmvmimr<mm^9^9

Jake Goldberg is quick tempered, impetuous and often a little bombastic. But he is a good husband to Molly and the
children. He knows that Molly is smarter than he is and whenever he doesn't take her advice he suffers. Jake is a
go-getter. He was not satisfied to remain a dress cutter all his life, he wanted better things for Molly and the
kids, but the minute his contracting business started to make money he moved into a classy neighborhood, in spite
of Molly's advice. He lost all his money in a real estate deal, but hope springs eternal in Jake's heart and it was
he who got the idea of opening the old silk mill in Lastenbury. He made it a success, but his foolishness and
blind trust got the Goldbergs into trouble again. He encouraged the romance between Sammy and Sylvia Allison.
He strutted and posed and played the all important parent. He was sincerely interested in Sammy's happiness, but
was taken in by the soft soap the Allisons handed him. Back in Lastenbury, he has already forgotten his mistake.
It's a lucky thing for Jake that he has Molly and, in his own peculiar way, he will sometimes grudgingly admit it.
august. 1941 (Played by James R. Waters) 2?

Martha Wilburforce lives next door to
the Goldbergs in Lastenbury. She is the
typical New England spinster, gossipy,
suspicious, over curious, kindly ener-
getic. When the Goldbergs first came
to Lastenbury, she didn't like them.
She went out of her way to be miserable
to her new neighbors. Molly tolerated
Martha's bad nature, because she felt
that underneath the old New Englander's
meddlesome, gruff manner there was es-
sentially a good person. Through kind-
ness and patience, Molly won the affec-
tion of Martha, who later came to the
help of the Goldbergs when they least
expected her good neighborliness. She
now feels as though she is one of the
family. She loves Molly, quarrels with
Jake, but secretly admires and likes
him, too. Since Martha has known the
Goldbergs a new spirit has come into
her life. The Goldbergs are always
mixed up in something and this gives
Martha a feeling, through them, that
she is also a part of the world and
its doings. She is still a little bit
ashamed of the way she treated the Gold-
bergs when they first moved in next door
and so when they took their recent trip,
Martha was the first to offer to take
care of Molly's chickens and the dog.
(Played by Carrie Weller)

Sammy Goldberg is a sensitive, talented
young man of nineteen, more like his
mother than his father. All his life,
Sammy has wanted to be a writer. It's
been a problem raising Sammy. His boy-
ish, impetuous love for people has con-
tinually caused Jake and Molly trouble.
When Sylvia Allison came to live with
the Goldbergs, she and Sammy were im-
mediately attracted to each other. Molly
tried to clarify the situation, but
Sylvia made Sammy believe that Molly
was jealous of her and Molly began to
lose her influence over Sammy. The boy
couldn't resist following Sylvia to
South Carolina where they planned to be
married. On the surface, the Allison
family seemed to be fine. Molly sus-
pected something else and slowly their
mean and grasping ways revealed them
in their true light. But Sammy was too
deeply in love with Sylvia to sec this
until Molly discovered that Sylvia was
having a clandestine romance with her
brother-in-law. When Molly told Sammy
this it almost broke his heart. He
called off the marriage and returned to
Lastenbury with his family. Sammy has
gone back to his writing again, sadder
but more mature. He has learned a good
deal from his experience with Sylvia. We
should expect great things of him in the
future. Molly certainly docs and her
faith in him will not go unrewarded.
(Played by Alfred Ryder)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

They've been Mr. and Mrs. Morgan for
more than twenty-five years. Here they
are, rushing to be on time for Frank's
Maxwell Coffee Time broadcast, Thurs-
day, at 8:00 P.M., E.D.T., on NBC-Red.

Once he might have been your Fuller brush
man, or have tried to sell you real es-
tate, but then Frank Morgan fell in love
and now he's radio's most beloved jester

By SARA HAMILTON

^LM

PROMPTLY at four and eight
P. M. every California Thurs-
day, Mr. Frank Morgan, full of
very fried shrimp from The Tropics
across the street, stands before an
NBC microphone and verbally lets
fly — in all directions. No one is ever
quite sure of the consequences, not
even Morgan.

As a result, everyone connected
with the broadcast is growing older
and grayer and a bit more confused
while the program's popularity
climbs higher and higher like a
monkey after a cocoanut.

Certain people behind the show,

AUGUST, 1941

therefore, just can't make up their
minds from week to week whether
to send up skyrockets in celebration,
or go into their bathrooms and cut
their throats good and hard.

Frank Morgan is a unique char-
acter in radio and for several rea-
sons. He is the only actor we know
who enhances his standing by blow-
ing up in his lines and throwing
around chaos as you would pennies.
The more mixed up things get — the
funnier. He is just as liable as not
to turn, by mistake, from page eight
of the script to page ten and find
himself knee-deep in the Baby

Snooks department. All of which
sends the studio audience pitching
out of their seats and into the
aisles.

That God-given ability to fumble
around through half-finished sen-
tences and phrases is attributed by
close friends to several sources.

One group insists the whole thing
is the result of frustration — love
frustration, if you please, which goes
back some twenty-five or -six years
to when Mr. Morgan, who was then
Frank Wupperman, son of the
wealthy Angostura Bitters family,
informed (Continued on page 58)

Concluding the dramatic novel based
upon the popular radio serial of the
same name, heard Monday through Fri-
day, at 4:45 P. M„ E.D.S.T.. over
the NBC-Red network. Photo of Ellen
Brown as played by Florence Freeman.
Copyright 1941, Frank and Anne Hummert

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

In her unselfish effort to pull Grace Gaines out of a life
of darkness and despair, Ellen finds for herself and Anthony
a promise of all the beauty and all the glory in the world

ELLEN sat in the visitors' room
of the Health Center, waiting,
visualizing the scene in the
operating room at the far end of
the corridor. The sheeted figure
on the table, the click of instru-
ments, Anthony Loring's low- voiced
instructions to the nurses . . .

She, Ellen Brown, had sent Grace
Gaines to that room. At great cost
to herself, she had arranged this
operation. Suppose it had all been
futile, or more than futile? Sup-
pose Grace, as other doctors had
feared, was too weak to stand the
shock of going under the knife?
Suppose —

A nurse passed along the hall.
There was a murmur of voices
somewhere, quickly stilled, then
silence again. Keith Gaines, sitting
opposite her, met her eyes and
looked away.

Supposing all that, even the
worst, Ellen thought, she still had
done what she had to do.

She could think back calmly now
— back to the evening when she had
made up her mind to leave Simp-
son ville for a time and try to get
her world in order again. Loving
Anthony Loring hadn't been
enough, even then. She'd had to
consider her two children, and their
uncomprehending, frantic belief
that her marriage to Anthony
would mean she was deserting
them. Wanting time to think, she
had gone to New River City and
taken the job of nursing Grace
Gaines, whose face was so hideously
scarred in that long-ago automobile
accident.

And it was right, too, that she
had persuaded Grace and Keith to
allow Anthony to operate; for the
consciousness of her ugliness had
warped Grace's soul and turned her
into a bitter frustrated woman who
was not only ruining her own life,
but that of her husband as well.

Anthony had been so happy when
she called him from New River
City! He hadn't known where she
was, and he'd believed that this
summons meant she was ready to
admit their love, marry him. And
then the gradual hardening of his
face when he learned that she had
called him, not for herself, but to
operate on Grace Gaines.

Once more she was seeing the
silent,' withdrawn man who had

AUGUST, 1941

first come to Simpsonville.

How could he know that her heart
was crying out to him — a desperate
cry that her lips would not utter?
How could he know that she had
wrestled long hours with herself
before deciding to call him — and
that she had reached the decision
only because she could not allow
her personal problems to bar Grace
Gaines from happiness? If there
had only been some other surgeon
they could have trusted! But neither
she nor the Gaineses knew of one.
Anthony had been their only hope.
She could explain — perhaps. She
could make him see that her call
had been something apart from their
own lives; that it had been no more
than her intuition turning to the
best possible person for a job that
had to be done. This she could tell
him — perhaps.

But wasn't it better this way?
Janey and Mark, her children, had
been so happy since her return to
Simpsonville. The haunting unrea-
sonable fear of losing her had been
banished, their young instincts had
told them that there was a change*
now, between her and Anthony and
that they held, as always before, the
first place in her heart. The sense
of security, she knew, is the one
thing most necessary to a child, and
this she had been able to give Mark
and Janey.

Having hurt Anthony so deeply,
she no longer had to fight against
the pull of his love. If she wiped
away that hurt, things would be as
they had been before, and again
she would be torn between oppos-
ing loyalties.

No — she would say nothing. She
would not try to explain.

And as if to remind her of how
difficult not explaining must be,
Anthony was standing, suddenly, in
the doorway. "It's over," he said,
more to Ellen than to Keith Gaines.
"The operation's over. It went off
very well, I think."

She felt the subtle implication.
Ordinarily, a nurse would have told
her. In telling her himself, Anthony
was implying that her interest in
Grace Gaines was great — so great
that nothing much in the world mat-
tered to her except the operation.

Standing up, she said, "Thank
you, Anthony."

He nodded and silently turned

away without another word to her.
The operation was over, but there
was still the long waiting to go
through, the interminable waiting
that seemed so much longer than it
really was. Now there was no ex-
citement, no urgency, no drama —
only the hoping and waiting. Until
the wounds healed no one would
know just how much of an improve-
ment had been made upon Grace's
scarred face.

Keith Gaines went back to New
River City for a day or so, returned
to Simpsonville, stood silently and
helplessly beside his wife's bed.
There was nothing for him to do.
He, too, could only wait.

As for Ellen, she was at the hos-
pital part of every day. It was, in
fact, incredible that she should
spend so much time there and see
so little of Anthony Loring. He had
a trick now of — not leaving a room
when she entered it, so much as
seeming to evaporate, disappear.

But the day came at last when he
must remain — the day when he re-
moved the bandages. Ellen and
Keith Gaines were there, watching,
held immobile in suspense. Then
there was the mirror in Grace's
trembling hands and for a moment
it seemed (Continued on page 78)

She was willing to sacrifice
all hope of love if only she
could be a rich man's wife
until, on her wedding day,
Jimmy took her in his arms

Editor's Note — Every Sunday
night two brilliant stars, Robertson
White and Ireene Wicker, perform
radio magic with their fascinating
new NBC program, Deadline Dra-
mas. On it, they act out, without
previous preparation, complete
playlets based on a single sentence
given to them on the air, inventing
their lines as they go along. Now
Radio Mirror offers a sample of this
magic by publishing this Deadline
Drama in vivid story form.

JANE caught the bridal bouquet,
then turned away and burst into
tears. She didn't want people
to know she was crying, and she ran
at once into the library, but from
where I stood with Bill on the stair-
way I couldn't help seeing the piti-
ful, lost look on her face.

Jimmy, who had been Bill's best
man, started to follow her. I saw
him put his hand oh the doorknob,
hesitate, and finally change his mind
and decide not to go in after all. And

so I knew that Jimmy knew as well
as I did why Jane was crying.

Things do catch up with you. You
think you can evade them, but you
can't. I remember reading, some-
where, an old quotation. "Take what
you want, said God — take it, and
pay for it." And that would be all
right, but the terrible thing is that
sometimes other people must pay for
what you take.

It was Jane, and Jimmy, who
were paying this time.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIFROR

Jane and I had gone to boarding
school together. It was an expen-
sive school, much more expensive
than my parents could really afford,
but in my family it was unthinkable
that a Rutherford daughter shouldn't
have the best of everything. Years
ago, before the War Between the
States, the Rutherfords were one of
the richest families in the South.
The war ruined us, but we've never
quite been able to realize it.

In a way, sending me to that

school was a good investment, be-
cause at it I met Jane Winton — and
through Jane Winton I met Bill
Touraine, who had enough money
to buy all the land the Rutherfords
had originally owned and the whole
state of Alabama besides.

Jane and I were such good friends
in school that she used to invite me
to her home in Connecticut for holi-
days. Her parents were so wealthy
they'd begun to think money wasn't
important. I knew better. I'd spent

all my life in an atmosphere of gen-
teel poverty, which is in some ways
worse than the real kind. We could
never admit we were poor. We had
to scrimp on necessities so we could
buy the luxuries that would make
it possible for us to hold up our
heads before our world.

Long before I was old enough to
go to boarding school I made up my
mind that someday I'd be rich. I
didn't know how, then. I didn't
know how until I visited Jane and
heard about some girl who had made
a wealthy marriage. That, I said to
myself, was what I would do. It
shouldn't be difficult. I had a dark,
sparkling kind of beauty, and I
seemed to understand instinctively
how to arouse a man's interest in
me.

It was my bad luck that I fell in
love.

Jimmy Taylor was a boy Jane
had known all her life. She told
me all about him, and it wasn't
difficult to see that she was deeply
in love with him. Not that she
knew it herself. Jane and I were
about the same age, but I always felt
much older and wiser than she when
it came to love-affairs. All through
our school days she was immature
and naive, with no more idea of
what love really was than a kitten.

As it happened, I didn't really get
to know Jimmy until the Christmas
before Jane and I graduated from
Miss Bunce's school. I'd met him,
but in the summers when I visited
Jane he was almost always away,
working. His family was only
moderately well off, and Jimmy's
vacations were spent in earning
enough money to get him through
the next year of college. This
Christmas was different. He had his
degree, and was living with his par-
ents in Drewton, commuting to New
York every day to work as a drafts-
man in an architect's office.

In the evenings, and over the holi-
day week-end, he came to see Jane.
I don't know how it happened, but
we — Jimmy and I — fell in love.

It was a strange and unsatisfac-
tory kind of love. You see, neither
of us ever spoke of it. Jimmy and
Jane had one of those understand-
ings that meant they would, some

AUGUST, 1941

From where Bill and I «tood on the
ftairway I couldn't help teeing the
pitiful, loft look on Jonei face.

gifc g^'z 8^^

She was willing to sacrifice
all hope of love if only she
could be a rich man's wife —
until, on her wedding day,
Jimmy took her in his arms

Editor's1 Note — Every Sunday
night two brilliant stars, Robertson
White and Ireene Wicker, perform
radio magic with their fascinating
new NBC program, Deadline Dra-
mas. On it, they act out, without
previous preparation, complete
playlets based on a single sentence
given to them on the air, inventing
their lines as they go along. Now
Radio Mirror offers a sample of this
magic by publishing this Deadline
Drama in vivid story form.

Jimmy, who had been Bill's best
man, started to follow her. I saw
him put his hand oh the doorknob,
hesitate, and finally change his mind
and decide not to go in after all. And

so I knew that Jimmy knew as well
as I did why Jane was crying.

Things do catch up with you. You
think you can evade them, but you
can't. I remember reading, some-
where, an old quotation. "Take what
you want, said God— take it, ana
pay for it." And that would be all
right, but the terrible thing is tha^
sometimes other people must pay t°
what you take.

It was Jane, and Jimmy, wh°
were paying this time.

RADIO AND TELEVISION r*3**

■-

Ir» a way, sending me to that

AUCOST. 1941

school was a good investment, be-
cause at it I met Jane Winton— and
through Jane Winton I met Bill
Touraine, who had enough money
to buy all the land the Rutherfords
had originally owned and the whole
state of Alabama besides.

all my life in an atmosphere of gen-
teel poverty, which is in some ways
worse than the real kind. We could
never admit we were poor. We had
to scrimp on necessities so we could
buy the luxuries that would make.
it possible for us to hold up our
heads before our world.

It was my bad luck that I fell in
love.

Jimmy Taylor was a boy Jane
had known all her life. She told
me all about him, and it wun'l
difficult to see that she was deeply
in love with him. Not that the
knew it herself. Jane and I ware
about the same age, but I always fell
much older and wiser than aha when
it came to love-affairs. All through
our school days she was immature
and naive, with no more idea of
what love really was than a kitten
As it happened, I didn't really get
to know Jimmy until the Christmas
before Jane and I graduated from
Miss Bunce's school. I'd met him,
but in the summers when I visited
Jane he was almost always away,
working. His family was only
moderately well off, and Jimmy's
vacations were spent in earn
enough money to get him through
the next year of college. Tin;
Christmas was different. He had his
degree, and was living with his par-
ents in Drewton, commuting to New
York every day to work as a drafts-
man in an architect's office.

In the evenings, and over the holi-
day week-end, he came to see Jane.
I don't know how it happened, but
we — Jimmy and I — fell in love.

It was a strange and unsatisfac-
tory kind of love. You see, neither
of us ever spoke of it. Jimmy and
Jane had one of those understand-
ings that meant they would, some

day, be married. I didn't want to
smash that neat, ordered future of
theirs. I wouldn't have wanted to,
even if Jimmy had been the kind of
man I'd already set my heart on
marrying. And anyway, he wasn't:
he didn't have any money.

Although neither of us said any-
thing, we each knew, in some
strange way, how the other felt.
Whenever we were together it was
exactly as if an unseen force were
trying to push me into his arms. I
was always careful, and I think
Jimmy was too, never to let myself
be alone with him.

I WAS glad when the holidays
ended, and Jane and I went back
to school. I thought I'd be able to
forget about him, but I couldn't. I
kept seeing his clean, fresh face, the
flash of his teeth when he was
amused, the aliveness of his brown
eyes. Jane invited me to go home
with her for the Easter holidays; I
tried to refuse, but she was puzzled
and hurt, and at last I consented.

That was when I met Bill Tour-
aine. He was older than Jimmy, not
only in years but in knowledge and
experience. His quiet, grave man-
ner made you realize that he was a
man who always knew what he
wanted, and who set about getting
it in the most direct and efficient
way possible. It had never been
necessary for him to work for a liv-
ing, but to my amazement I discov-
ered he was one of the country's
youngest authorities on some com-
plicated branch of chemistry that I
can't even pronounce, much less
spell.

He asked me to go with him to
several dances and parties, that
Easter week, and I was glad to ac-
cept because it meant I would see
less of Jimmy, have less time to
think of him. And — since I have
promised myself I would set down
the whole truth here — I was im-
pressed by Bill's money.

After our first date alone together,
when I knew he was interested in
me, I decided that Bill was the man
I would marry if I possibly could.

I won't try to make excuses for
myself. I did like Bill, and I re-
spected him. I don't believe I could
have pretended to love him other-
wise. But I wanted to marry him
because he was rich.

Throughout the few months of
school that were left, Bill and I
corresponded regularly, and that
summer he asked me to marry him.
When I said I would, I made a
solemn vow to myself. I would be
a good wife to him; I wouldn't let
him know, ever, that I loved him
lea than it was his right to be loved.
He was so kind, so gentle, so good —

I must play fair with him.

I can't see, now, how I could have
deluded myself so completely.

I didn't realize, until the very day
of the wedding, that —

But I'd better tell it the way it
happened. Because most of my
friends and all of Bill's lived in the
North, we decided to have the wed-
ding therp "ith Father and Mother
coming ror it. As soon as Jane
heard we were going to be married,
she offered her home for the cere-
mony and reception. Everything
was elaborate, beautiful, romantic
— just the kind of wedding every
girl pictures in her dreams.

Jane was my maid of honor, and
Jimmy was Bill's best man. That
seemed ironic and terrible to me, but
there was nothing I could do about
it. I had made up my mind I would
never let myself think about Jimmy
again. I tried to avoid him, in the
few days before the wedding while
I stayed with Jane. Every time our
glances crossed I felt his reproach,
his bitterness.

Then it was my wedding day, and
Bill and I were standing at the
flower-banked altar. I heard the
minister's voice, and found it hard
to understand that these words he
was speaking would accomplish my
great ambition, make me Mrs. Wil-
liam Touraine, and wealthy. He
finished, Bill was kissing me, I heard
the babble of laughter and congrat-
ulations from the guests . . .

Jimmy stood before me, the smile
on his white face looking as though
it had been fixed there with pins.
He said in a queer, strained voice:

"It's the best man's privilege to
kiss the bride."

He took me roughly in his arms,
pressed his lips against mine. I could
feel him trying to draw my soul out
of my body with that kiss. It was
a farewell to me, and at the same
time it was a cry for help, anguished
and heart-broken.

And I realized two things. One
was that Jimmy was suffering, as
only a man can suffer who has lost
the girl he loves. The other was
that he meant nothing to me. Noth-
ing at all.

My brain was whirling so that I
couldn't see the faces of the people
around me, couldn't tell whether
or not they had observed the passion
in Jimmy's embrace and been horri-
fied by it. I didn't know whether
to be happy or not. I was happy —
overjoyed that at last the scales had
been dashed from my eyes and I was
free from a love that could only
have made me miserable. But I was
weak with pity, at the same time,
for Jimmy.

And later, when Jane caught my
bouquet and ran away crying, I saw

"I only set out to marry you because you

the whole tragedy plainly. Jane, at
least, had read the meaning of Jim-
my's kiss, and it had broken her
heart.

"Bill," I whispered when I could
speak, "I'll go on up to my room, to
change. Ask Jane to come see me.
Tell her it's very important — I must
talk to her."

Bill looked at me gravely. I could
not read his thoughts as he said,
"All right, dear."

In my own room, amidst the dis-
order of half-packed suitcases, I
took off my veil and tried to think.
The easy thing would have been to
shrug off all responsibility. I was
married, I could not help it if a man
not my husband was in love with
me. Yes, I could say that, but it
would not be true.

Although we had never spoken of
it, love had been acknowledged be-
tween Jimmy and me. I had really
taken him away from Jane, without
meaning to, and so I couldn't avoid
responsibility.

The door opened, and Jane came

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

were rich," I said. "I'm terribly ashamed."

in, traces of tears still in her lovely,
gentle eyes. She moved reluctantly,
and I knew she had come against
her will.

"I'm sorry I made such a fool of
myself, Adelaide," she said.

Quickly I took her hand. "Let's
not pretend I don't know why you
cried," I told her. "I'm so terribly
sorry."

"I don't know why I broke down,"
Jane said. "It isn't as if I didn't
know already. Jimmy's been dif-
ferent for months. I knew he'd —
lost interest in me, but until this
morning, when he kissed you after
the ceremony, I didn't know why.
And then — I caught your bouquet,
with Jimmy standing right beside
me, and it — it just seemed so hope-
less—"

She stopped, fighting for compo-
sure. Then, after a moment, she
went on:

"Because Jimmy isn't the kind
who would come back to me on the
rebound — even if I wanted him to
and — and I'm not sure I do . . ."

AUGUST, 1941

"But if he really loved you — if he
knew I wasn't the kind of girl he
could ever care for — then you'd take
him back, wouldn't you?" I de-
manded.

"Why — yes, of course. If I could
be sure he wasn't wishing he could
have you. But that's impossible — "

"No, it's not," I insisted, begin-
ning to take off my wi ~ 7,?ng gown.
"I know a way to make „- my for-
get he ever thought he loved me.
It'll hurt him, for a little while, but
it's so much better than letting him
be hurt forever."

I hurried into my traveling suit. I
had to hurry, because if I didn't
do what I had to do now, I might
lose my courage and never do it at
all.

I would give no answers to Jane's
puzzled questions. All I said, just
before going downstairs, was:

"Jimmy may hate me, after I've
talked to him. I'd rather he hated
me than loved me. But I hope you
never will, Jane."

"You know I could never hate
you," she whispered.

Downstairs, I stood with Bill for
a while, my arm in his, laughing
and talking to the wedding guests.
My eyes roamed the room, looking
for Jimmy, but he was nowhere in
sight. Finally I murmured an ex-
cuse and went looking for him.
Everywhere I turned, in every room
I entered, there were people for
whom I must smile and act natu-
rally before I could get away. I be-
gan to be afraid he had left. But
at last I found him on the deserted
back terrace, leaning back in one of
the striped chairs and looking down
into the autumn carnival of the val-
ley.

"Jimmy," I said.

He turned, startled at my voice,
and began to get up. I had a glass
of champagne in my hand, and as
I came toward him I moved just a
little unsteadily.

"Don't get up, Jimmy," I said.
"I'll sit down." And I plumped
myself onto a hassock that was by
his knee. Some of the champagne
spilled out of the glass. "Here," I
said, offering it to him. "Aren't
you going to drink to my happi-
ness?"

He wanted to refuse, but he man-
aged to smile and take the glass. He
drank only a sip of the wine.

I leaned forward, hugging my
knees and gazing up at him. "I just
had to come and say goodbye to
you," I said, making my voice low
and intimate. "But we'll always be
— good friends, won't we, Jimmy?"

"Of course," he said. He was
watching me, measuring me, trying
desperately not to believe that I was
what I seemed.

I giggled. "If you aren't going to
drink that, give it to me," I said, and
taking the glass from his lax fingers,
drained it. It was the first I'd had
that day, but he couldn't know that,
and his eyes widened in shocked
amazement.

"Mmm — champagne!" I said. "I
love it. And now that — now that
I'm — " I didn't know why the
words seemed to stick in my throat.
I finished determinedly, "Now that
I'm Mrs. William Touraine, I can
have all of it I want!"

"Adelaide!" Jimmy's hands were
clutching the arms of his chair so
hard that the knuckles thrust up
under the skin. "You don't mean
that!"

"Of course I mean it." I was
forcing myself to go on now. I hadn't
expected to hate this role so com-
pletely, I hadn't known it would
make me feel so unclean. I told
myself fiercely that, after all, every-
thing I was telling Jimmy was true
— essentially true. I had married
Bill for his money. That was true.
The only lies were the trimmings I
was adding — the pretence of drunk-
enness, the cynical way of telling
the truth.

I went on, battering at his horri-
fied disbelief, all the time talking
like a tipsy, frivolous, scheming
girl. "I like you much better than
Bill, Jimmy, but of course I couldn't
marry anybody that didn't have
loads and loads of money. Why, it
just wouldn't work out, darling. I
wouldn't be happy, and when I'm
not happy I'm simply beastly to have
around. I've always said I'd marry
a man with money — and now I
have!"

"Shut up!" Jimmy said hoarsely.
"Stop telling me all this. I don't
want to hear it, and when you've
sobered up you'll hate yourself for
saying it."

"But I wanted you to understand,"
I said with foolish gravity. "You've
got to understand, Jimmy, so that
when Bill and I come back from our
honeymoon we can be friends again.
Really good friends . . . I'm so ter-
ribly fond of you, Jimmy darling."

I swayed toward him.

With a muttered exclamation,
charged with disgust, Jimmy stood
up. He was looking at me as if I
were something unspeakably vile.
Then he turned and walked swiftly
away, down the terrace and around
the corner of the house.

I sat still on the hassock, feeling
as empty inside as the champagne
glass in my hand. It didn't matter
now that I'd over-dramatized my
reasons for marrying Bill, or that
I had pretended to want Jimmy to
become my lover when I returned
from the (Continued on page 59)

day, be married. I didn't want to
smash that neat, ordered future of
theirs I wouldn't have wanted to,
even if Jimmy had been the kind of
man I'd already set my heart on
marrying. And anyway, he wasn t:
he didn't have any money.

I WAS glad when the holidays
I ended, and Jane and I went back
to school. I thought I'd be able to
forget about him, but I couldn't. I
kept seeing his clean, fresh face, the
flash of his teeth when he was
amused, the aliveness of his brown
eyes. Jane invited me to go home
with her for the Easter holidays; I
tried to refuse, but she was puzzled
and hurt, and at last I consented.

After our first date alone together,
when I knew he was interested in
me, I decided that Bill was the man
I would marry if I possibly could.

I won't try to make excuses for
myself. I did like Bill, and I re-
spected him. I don't believe I could
have pretended to love him other-
wise. But I wanted to marry him
because he was rich.

Throughout the few months of
school that were left, Bill and I
corresponded regularly, and that
summer he asked me to marry him.
When I said I would, I made a
solemn vow to myself. I would be
a good wife to him; I wouldn't let
him know, ever, that I loved him
less than it was his right to be loved.
He was so kind, so gentle, so good —
34

I must play fair with him.

I can't see, now, how I could have
deluded myself so completely.

I didn't realize, until the very day
of the wedding, that —

But I'd better tell it the way it
happened. Because most of my
friends and all of Bill's lived in the
North, we decided to have the wed-
ding there -ith Father and Mother
coming xor it. As soon as Jane
heard we were going to be married,
she offered her home for the cere-
mony and reception. Everything
was elaborate, beautiful, romantic
—just the kind of wedding every
girl pictures in her dreams.

Jimmy stood before me, the smile
on his white face looking as though
it had been fixed there with pins.
He said in a queer, strained voice:

"It's the best man's privilege to
kiss the bride."

And I realized two things. One
was that Jimmy was suffering, as
only a man can suffer who has lost
the girl he loves. The other was
that he meant nothing to me. Noth-
ing at all.

And later, when Jane caught my
bouquet and ran away crying, I saw

"I only set out to marry you because you

the whole tragedy plainly. Jane, at
least, had read the meaning of Jim-
my's kiss, and it had broken her
heart.

"Bill," I whispered when I could
speak, "I'll go on up to my room, to
change. Ask Jane to come see me.
Tell her it's very important — I must
talk to her."

Bill looked at me gravely. I could
not read his thoughts as he said,
"All right, dear."

Although we had never spoken of
it, love had been acknowledged be-
tween Jimmy and me. I had really
taken him away from Jane, without
meaning to, and so I couldn't avow
responsibility.

The door opened, and Jane came

RADIO AMD THEVISIOM MDW"

were rich," I said. "I'm terribly ashamed."

in, traces of tears still in her lovely,
gentle eyes. She moved reluctantly,
and I knew she had come against
her will.

"I'm sorry I made such a fool of
myself, Adelaide," she said.

Quickly I took her hand. "Let's
not pretend I don't know why you
cried," I told her. "I'm so terribly
sorry."

She stopped, fighting for compo-
sure. Then, after a moment, she
went on:

"Because Jimmy isn't the kind
who would come back to me on the
rebound — even if I wanted him to
and — and I'm not sure I do . . ."

AVCOST. 1941

But if he really loved you— if he
knew I wasn't the kind of girl he
could ever care for-then you'd take
nun back, wouldn't you'" I de
manded.

"Why— yes, of course. If I could
be sure he wasn't wishing he could
have you. But that's impossible—"

"No, it's not," I insisted, begin-
ning to take off my Wl **ng gown.
"I know a way to make „. [my for-
get he ever thought he loved me
It'll hurt him, for a little while, but
it's so much better than letting him
be hurt forever."

I hurried into my traveling suit. I
had to hurry, because if I didn't
do what I had to do now, I might
lose my courage and never do it at
all.

I would give no answers to Jane's
puzzled questions. All I said, just
before going downstairs, was:

"Jimmy may hate me, after I've
talked to him. I'd rather he hated
me than loved me. But I hope you
never will, Jane."

"You know I could never hate
you," she whispered.

"Jimmy," I said.

He turned, startled at my voice,
and began to get up. I had a glass
of champagne in my hand, and as
I came toward him I moved just a
little unsteadily.

He wanted to refuse, but he man-
aged to smile and take the glass. He
drank only a sip of the wine.

I leaned forward, hugging my
knees and gazing up at him. "I just
had to come and say goodbye to
vou " I said, making my voice low
and intimate. "But we'll always be
—good friends, won't we, Jimmy.

"Of course," he said. He was
watching me, measuring me.W
desperately not to believe that I was
what I seemed.

"Adelaide!" Jimmy's hands were
clutching the arms of his chair so
hard that the knuckles thrust up
under the skin. "You don't mean
that!"

"Shut up!" Jimmy said hoarsely.
"Stop telling me all this. I don't
want to hear it, and when you've
sobered up you'll hate yourself for
saying it."

I swayed toward him.

B— m

FLAMINGO

It's the season's new sensational ballad, as featured by Will Bradley
and his orchestra on the Silver Theater summer show, Sundays over CBS

Lyrics by

ED. ANDERSON

Chorus

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For a cool luncheon snack, serve
a platter of Brazil nut deviled
eggs, prepared the day before.

Here's something new to please salad fanciers — a platter of assorted
fruits, sea food and vegetables, all ingredients having been prepared
the day before and stored in the refrigerator until time to be served.

Banana tapioca cream pudding,
decorated with mint leaves, is
a cooling dish any time of day.

EAT

BY KATE SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Kate Smith'* vacationing from her Friday
night CBS show, but you can ttlll hear
her on her daily talkt over CBS at 12
noon, E.D.T., sponsored by Genera/ Foods.

IF I were to ask you if you are
getting the most out of your re-
frigerator you would probably
answer in all sincerity, "Of course
I am." But are you? Are you let-
ting it do for you all the wbrk it is
capable of doing?

I know you depend on it to keep
perishable foods safely, to preserve
leftovers which might otherwise go
to waste and to prepare cold dishes
for hot weather eating — but its use-
fulness shouldn't end there. Stop
considering it merely as a refrigera-
tor and begin to consider it as an
active participant in home man-
agement. For if you will keep its
services in mind when you plan
your menus and do your marketing
it will repay you with better and
more varied meals, more quickly
and economically prepared.

Assume for example that it is
Monday morning. You don't want
chicken and peas, left over from
Sunday, for dinner, so you decide

on broiled ham and bananas,
creamed potatoes, salad and berry
pie. Now with the help of your re-
frigerator, you can — all at one time
— prepare or partially prepare not
only most of Monday's dinner but
a number of other dishes for serv-
ing later in the week.

First, order enough assorted salad
ingredients for several meals.
Washed, drained and stored in the
vegetable compartment they will
keep fresh for days.

Next, cook the potatoes and make
the white sauce for Monday's
creamed potatoes; you can heat
them together just before serving.
But, says your refrigerator, cook
twice as many potatoes as you need
and double the white sauce recipe.
Use the extra potatoes to make po-
tato salad — if closely covered it will
keep fresh and flavorsome until you
are ready to serve it. Put the addi-
tional white sauce into a jar and it
will be all ready for some salmon

RADIO AND TEt.EVISION MIBROH

You may not believe it, but this refreshing loaf was made from Sunday's
left-over chicken and Monday's remaining peas. It's made with
gelatin, and luscious stuffed olives are used as a colorful garnish.

When the thermometer's rising, a
quick dish the entire family will
enjoy, is broiled ham and bananas.

croquettes to serve with the potato
salad. Potato salad calls for eggs,
so boil a few extra ones and use them
later on for Brazil nut deviled eggs.

While the potatoes and eggs are
cooking, make a cold chicken loaf
to be served later in the week, using
the leftover chicken and peas plus
a few additions from the salad com-
partment.

Now you are ready to start your
berry pie. Be sure to make enough
dough for two pies — pastry keeps
perfectly if wrapped in wax paper
and is all the better for being thor-
oughly chilled before it is rolled out.
With the pie in the oven, there is
just time to whip up another later-
in-the-week dessert — banana tapi-
oca cream.

If this sounds like too much to do
in one morning, concentrate on the
recipes which will save you the most
time and energy during the week to
come. The idea, you see, is not to do
everything all at once, but to plan
in advance which foods you can buy
and prepare for later use and with
these as a starter I am sure you will
enjoy working out your own ideas.

And now for our recipes.

Broiled Ham and Bananas
Broil ham slice on one side. When
it is ready to be turned, place ba-
nanas on broiling rack and dot with
butter. Continue cooking until ham
is done and bananas are tender
enough to be pierced easily with a
fork. Turn bananas once.

Mix Your Own Salad
Arrange on a large plate any as-

AUGUST, 1941

sortment of fresh fruits, salad in-
gredients, shrimp, etc., that your
taste dictates. Serve plain, with jars
of French, Thousand Island and
mayonnaise dressing on the side.
Let each guest make his own selec-
tion of salad and dressing.

Chicken Loaf

2 tbls. gelatin
Vz cup cold water

1 cup boiling water
% cup mayonnaise
Vz tsp. curry powder

4-ounce bottle stuffed olives

REFRIGERATOR LORE

1. Defrost regularly in accordance
with instructions received with
your refrigerator.

2. Keep foods in separate contain-
ers— glass or enamel with tight
covers or bowls or jars topped
with pliofilm caps which have
elastic edges to ensure a close fit.

3. Keep refrigerator scrupulously
clean but do not use coarse
abrasives or scouring pads which
may break the enamel.

4. Remember that you will serve
better and more varied meals if
in addition to staples, salads and
fruits, your refrigerator holds
such appetizers as: Assorted
juices and beverages for cool-
ing drinks. Canned fruits and
vegetables for salads. Cold
canned consomme. Canned
luncheon meats, corned beef,
shrimp, lobster. Sandwich
spreads such as cheese, peanut
butter, potted meats, jellies.

2 cups diced cooked chicken

1 cup cooked peas
Vz cup diced cucumber
Vz cup diced celery

Soften gelatin in cold water, then
dissolve in boiling water. Chill until
slightly thickened then add mayon-
naise and curry powder. Beat with
rotary beater and pour thin layer
into well-buttered loaf pan. Chill
until nearly firm then press olive
slices into gelatin to form pattern.
Chill until firm. Add remaining in-
gredients to remaining gelatin then
pour carefully onto olive layer in
pan. Place in refrigerator until
ready to serve.

Brazil Nut Deviled Eggs

6 hard-cooked eggs
% cup mayonnaise

1 tsp. prepared mustard

Vn tsp. onion salt V\ tsp. celery salt

Vz tsp. lime juice

Vz cup chopped Brazil nuts

Combine egg yolks with half the
nuts and remaining ingredients. Fill
whites with mixture and sprinkle
tops with remaining chopped nuts.

Banana Tapioca Cream

2 cups milk

2 tbls. quick cooking tapioca

V\ tsp. salt

% cup sugar 1 egg

1 tsp. grated orange rind
1 cup sliced or diced ripe banana

Scald milk in top of double boiler.
Combine tapioca, salt and half the
sugar, add to milk and cook over
rapidly boiling water, stirring fre-
quently until tapioca is clear (about
5 minutes). Beat egg yolk and re-
maining sugar together, then beat in
2 or 3 tablespoons of the hot tapioca.
Pour back into hot mixture and
cook, stirring constantly, 5 minutes
more. Fold in stiffly beaten egg
white. Cool, then fold in banana and
orange rind. Chill until serving time.
Just before serving, garnish with
sliced banana and mint leaves.

His red cloak streaming in the wind, Superman
leaped high into the air and sped to Happyland.

Kent shook his head when Lois asked him to come
with her. He had more important things to do.

As Superman neared the park, he saw Nancy in the
roller coaster at the top of the steep grade.

CLARK KENT and Lois Lane, star reporters of
the Daily Planet, drove through the main
entrance of "Happyland," Metropolis' new
luxurious amusement park. Kent pressed down on the
brake and the car came to a slow stop just outside the
tent marked "Temporary Office." As the mild, gentle-
looking reporter turned to help Lois from her seat, they
could hear voices, rising in anger from the tent:

"The answer, Midway Martin, is no — and it will always
be no!"

Then, a man's harsh tones:

"I wouldn't be too sure, Miss Bardett — "

Lois quickly whispered to her companion: "That's my
dear Nancy whom I told you about. And she must be
talking to her competitor, Midway Martin. He owns
Carnival Town. Listen to him — "

"Miss Bardett, there ain't room in this town for two
amusement parks. I'm ready to pay fifteen thousand
cash for Happyland — "

Nancy's voice sounded almost hysterical:

"I'm not interested. It cost my father ten times that
much to build Happyland. I promised him on his death-
bed to make a success of it. Now get out before I have
you thrown out!"

"You won't have me thrown out, Miss Bardett. This
is your last chance. Do you want the fifteen grand?"

"I said get out!"

"Okay, sister, but you'll be sorry. This place won't last
a week if I have anything to do with it. Happyland, eh?
— you won't be so happy by the time I get through — "

The two reporters watched Martin stomp out of the
tent and drive away. Lois motioned to Kent to come along
with her to see Nancy but he shook his head:

"No, you go in alone. I have a feeling there's more
of a story here than just a yarn about the opening of
Happyland tonight. I didn't like Martin's face. A man
who looks like that is capable of doing almost anything.
You talk to Nancy and I think I'll take a ride over to
Carnival Town and have a look around."

A few minutes later the reporter parked his car near
the shack housing Midway's office. Walking silently, he
reached the door, ready to knock, when he heard voices.
He recognized Martin's immediately.

"Now listen, Kelly. As that Bardett dame's superin-
tendent you're in a spot to do us a lotta good. And I'll
see to it that you're paid off. You got everything fixed
for tonight?"

"Sure, boss. Just like you said. I had that aviator
drop circulars from his plane tellin' everybody that Hap-
pyland's giant roller coaster was unsafe and not to ride
on it. And then I took a piece of the track out of the
Sky Chaser. Boy, will the first car that hits that, sky-
rocket right to the Devil!"

"What time's the ride scheduled to open?"

"In just about a minute, at eight o'clock. That'll fix
Happyland for good!"

The reporter waited to hear no more. He wheeled and,
in that instant, Clark Kent became— Superman! Like
some giant bird, Superman leaped high into the air. Red
cloak streaming in the wind, he sped to Happyland. But
already, Martin's diabolic plan was in operation. Every
member of the huge crowd at Happyland had seen the
warning circular. Nancy, valiantly determined to make
a success of her park, climbed up on the ticket booth.
Superman was not there to stop her when she said:

". . . and to prove that the Sky Chaser is absolutely
safe I myself — alone — will take the first ride!"

Vainly, Lois tried to stop her. Nancy's determination
didn't waver. As Superman neared the park, the roller
coaster car holding her was already nearing the top of
the first steep grade. Aided by his telescopic vision, he
saw her and, in a flash, realized what had happened:

"I could stop that car but those thousands down there
would know something was wrong and that would ruin
Happyland forever! No, I must find that missing piece of
track. What a job! I've got to search a mile of roller
coaster to find where that piece has been removed! Good
thing it's dark. Up — UP — and away!"

Leaping to the steel framework of the Sky Chaser,
Superman raced along the track, sharp eyes glued to
the shining rails, looking for a break. Meanwhile, the
coaster car carrying Nancy Bardett reached the top of the
grade. It hung motionless for a timeless moment, then
came hurtling down like a giant bullet. Gathering mo-
mentum, the car screamed around a sharp curve at a
speed faster than a mile a minute. It roared through a
dark tunnel with Nancy clutching the polished handrails,
her teeth clenched and her face (Continued on page 79)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROB

^(44ufa(f

Reg'lar Fellers script writer Jerry Devine confers with his cast — Dickie Van Patten, Dickie
Monahan, Ran Ives, Jr., and Orville Phillips.

ON THE A I

Reg'lar Fellers, which replaced the Jack
Benny program for the summer— on NBC-
Red at 7:00, E.D.T., rebroadcast to the
West at 7:30 Pacific Time, and sponsored
by Jell-O.

This show is on the air because Gene
Bresson, who produces it, has always ad-
mired Gene Byrnes' comic strip of the
same name. He couldn't see why the
Reg'lar Fellers of the cartoons wouldn't
be just as amusing on the air, and after
a lot of work, his idea has at last become
a reality.

The first job for Bresson was to get a
cast together. He did what isn't often
done in radio — he hired kids who not only
sounded like the parts they were to play,
but looked like them, too. He had a satis-
factory cast lined up last November —
and then had to change two of the young
actors this spring when the show finally
went on the air because in the meantime
their voices had changed.

For at least two of the kids, Reg'lar
Fellers is a real life-saver. Bresson made
several trips to Harlem, looking for a
youngster to play the little Negro, Wash
Jones. In a dancing school he finally
found Orville Phillips, and chose him be-
cause he looked as Bresson imagined Bill
Robinson, the dancer, must have looked
when he was a boy. Orville's family of
a father and four other children was on
relief at the time, and the $80 a week he
gets for his work on the show comes in
very handy. Almost the same thing was
true of Dickie Monahan, cast as Dinky
Dugan. He's the baby of the cast, seven

For Eastern Standard Time or Central Daylight
Time, subtract one hour from Eastern Daylight Time.

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 29: The Pause that Refreshes, with Andre Kostelanetz and Albert Spalding,
moves tonight to a new time — 8: 00 on CBS. . . . It's the last broadcast for Charlie
McCarthy and Edgar Bergen, NBC-Red at 8:00, before they take their summer
vacation.

July 6: What's My Name, a quiz show with Arlene Francis as mistress of ceremonies,
takes the place of Charlie McCarthy tonight.

July 13: Tune in Josef Marais' African Trek on NBC-Blue at 3:00 this afternoon
for some unusual music and African atmosphere.

9:35
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TONIGHT:

years old, and although Bresson had seen
him before in radio shows, he couldn't
find him when he wanted to. One reason
was that the people at the parish church
and school where Dickie went thought
Bresson was a bill-collector when he
made inquiries, and were afraid to tell
him where Dickie was. He finally estab-
lished his good faith, and found the boy.
Jerry Devine, who writes the Reg'lar
Fellers scripts, is a former child actor
himself, so he understands the kids and
sympathizes with them. Rehearals, nat-
urally, are pure pandemonium, but both
Devine and Bresson give the boys plenty
of rest periods, and find that when it's
time to go back to work quiet is easy to
restore. In their rest periods the boys
wrestle, play marbles, or gather under
the piano, which is their club-house, to
lie on their stomachs and swap yarns.
One day, while rehearsing a football
sequence, they nearly drove the sound-
effects man crazy by shouting and kick-
ing the ball around every time a halt
was called. Another time they all de-
cided they wanted a coke. Knowing the
microphone was on, they kept mumbling
about it, hoping someone in the control
room would hear and take pity on their
thirsts. Finally the director asked them,
"What's a coke worth to you?" Dickie
Van Patten, who plays Jimmie Dugan,
said, "Three cents." That was a mistake,
because there weren't three cents among
the whole cast. Finally Ran Ives (Pud-
din'head) called, "Never mind. We're
not thirsty any more!"

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Eastern Daylight Time

8:00 CBS: News

8:00 NBC-Blue: News

8:00 NBC-Red: Organ Recital

8:30 NBC-Blue: Tone Pictures
8:30 NBC- Red: Gene and Glenn

9:00 CBS: News of Europe
9:00 NBC: News from Europe

9:15 CBS: From the Organ Loft
9:15 NBC-Blue: White Rabbit Line
9:15 NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

9:30 NBC- Red: Lee Gordon Orch.

10:00 CBS: Church of the Air

10:00 NBC-Blue: Primrose String Quartet

10:00 NBC-Red: Radio Pulpit

10:30 CBS: Wings Over Jordan
10:30 NBC-Blue: Southernaires

11:05 CBS: News and Rhythm
11:05 NBC-Blue: Alice Remsen

11:30 CBS: What's New at the Zoo

11:30 NBC-Blue: Treasure Trails of Song

11:30 NBC-Red: Music and Youth

00 NBC-Red: Emma Otero

15 NBC-Blue: I'm an American

12:30 CBS: Salt Lake City Tabernacle
12:30 NBC-Blue: Radio City Music Hall
12:30 NBC-Red: Down South

1:00 CBS: Church of the Air
1:00 NBC- Red: Sammy Kaye

1:30 CBS: March of Games

1:30 NBC-Blue: Matinee with Lytell

1:30 NBC-Red: On Your Job

2:00 CBS: Invitation to Learning

2:00 NBC-Blue: Hidden History

2:00 NBC-Red: NBC String Symphony

NBC-Blue: Foreign Policy Assn.

2:30 NBC-Blue: Tapestry Musicals
2:30 NBC- Red: University of Chicago
Round Table

CBS: Meet the Music

3:00 CBS: Columbia Symphony
3:00 NBC-Blue: JOSEF MARAIS

15 NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

30 NBC-Blue: Talent, Ltd.

4:00 CBS: Meet the Music

4:00 NBC-Blue: National Vespers

4:00 NBC-Red: Laval Orch.

NBC-Red: Upton Close

4:30 NBC-Blue: Behind the Mike
4:30 NBC-Red: Charles Dant Orch

5:00 NBC-Blue: Moylan Sisters
5:00 NBC-Red: Joe and Mabel

NBC-Blue: Olivio Santoro

5:30 CBS: Col. Stoopnagle

5:30 NBC-Red: Roy Shields Orch.

6:00 CBS: Ed Sullivan

6:00 NBC-Blue: Blue Barron Orch.

6:00 NBC-Red: Catholic Hour

6:30 CBS: Gene Autry and Dear Mom
6:30 MBS: Bulldog Drummond
6:30 NBC-Red: Dr. I. Q. Junior

7:00 NBC-Blue: News From Europe
7:00 NBC-Red: Reg'lar Fellers

CBS: Girl About Town

7:30 CBS: World News Tonight
7:30 NBC-Blue: Pearson and Allen
7:30 NBC-Red: Fitch Bandwagon

MBS: Wythe Williams

8:00 CBS: Pause That Refreshes

8:00 NBC-Blue: Star Spangled Theater
8:00 NBC-Red: What's My Name

8:30 CBS: Crime Doctor

8:30 NBC-Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery

8:30 NBC- Red: ONE MAN'S FAMILY

55 CBS: Elmer Davis

00 CBS: FORD SUMMER HOUR
9:00 MBS: Old Fashioned Revival
9:00 NBC-Blue: Walter Winchell
9:00 NBC-Red: Manhattan Merry-Go-
Round

NBC-Blue: The Parker Family

9:30 NBC-Blue: Irene Rich
9:30 NBC-Red: American Album of
Familiar Music

NBC-Blue: Bill Stern Sports Review

10:00 CBS: Take It or Leave It
10:00 NBC-Blue: Goodwill Hour
10:00 NBC-Red: Hour of Charm

10:30 CBS: Columbia Workshop
10:30 NBC-Red: Deadline Drama

11:00 CBS: Headlines and Bylines
11:00 NBC: Dance Orchestra

INSIDE RADIO-The Radio Mirror Almanac-Programs from June 25 to July 24

AUGUST, 1941

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MONDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Hymns of All Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Three Romeos
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC- Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman ot Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Ufa

CBS: Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Blue: Modern Mother
NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Blue: Alma Kitchell
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

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8:30 10

1:30 CBS: Right to Happiness
1:30 MBS: Government Girl

1:45 CBS: Road ot Life

1:45 MBS: I'll Find My Way

2:00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone

2:00 NBC-Red: Light of the World

2:15 CBS: Girl Interne

2:15 NBC-Red: The Mystery Man

2:30 CBS: Fletcher Wiley

2:30 NBC-Blue: The Munros

2:30 NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

2:45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

2:45 NBC-Blue: Midstream

2:45 NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

3:00 CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

3:00 NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

3:00 NBC-Red: Against the Storm

3:15 CBS: Frank Parker

3:15 NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

3:15 NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Lecture Hall
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine
NBC- Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC- Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

3:30
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CBS:

n n<:

NBC
CBS:
CBS:
CBS:
CBS:
CBS:
NBC

CBS:
NBC
NBC

CHS:

7:30 ( BS
7:30 MIIS
7:30[nHC
8:00 NBC
8:00 N Hi

fiSo'CBS:

8:30 NIS<
8:30 MS<

iijb'cbs

:00 ( l',S
00 M US
:00 NIK
:00 NIK'
lIOINBI
:5S|nIK"
00 CI!S
00 M US
00 NIK
00 NIK

jo I BS
10 NBC-

Scattergood Barnes
Blue: Wings on Watch
-Red: Jack Armstrong
Edwin C. Hill
Bob Trout
Hedda Hopper
Paul Sullivan
The World Today
Blue: Lowell Thomas
Red: Paul Douglas
Amos 'n' Andy
Blue This is the Show
Red. Fred Waring's Gang
Lanny Ross
Red: European News
BLONDIE
The Lone Ranger
Red: Cavalcade of America
Blue I Love a Mystery
Red The Telephone Hour
GAY NINETIES
Blue: True or False
Red: Voice of Firostono
Elmer Davis
Forecast
Gabriel Heattor
Blue: Fj.i-.in Street Music
Red Doctor I. Q.
Blue: News

Blue The N,. ki ' Man
Guy Lombardo
Raymond Gram Swlnq
Blue Famous Jury Trials
Red Contented Hour
Girl About Town
Him- Radio Forum

Ted Steele sings, acts, plays the
Novachord and leads a band.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN...

Ted Steele, the amazingly versatile
young man who plays and sings with his
own orchestra every Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday and Thursday night at 9:45,
and stars in the half-hour show, Boy
Meets Band, every Saturday at 8: 00, both
on NBC-Blue.

Ted is in his early twenties, handsome,
broad-shouldered, and permanently sun-
burned these days because he spends
every bit of time that he can on his
New Jersey farm. Two years ago he was
an NBC page-boy. Now he has a five-
year contract with that same company as
a singer-musician-actor.

Born in Hartford, Connecticut, Ted or-
ganized his first band when i:e was sev-
enteen. The personnel director of a
steamship line heard the band at a col-
lege prom and gave it a contract for two
trans-Atlantic cruises. When he landed
from the second one, Ted enrolled at
Trinity College, led the band there, wrote
school songs, and directed several varsity
shows. With all that experience under
his belt, he thought it would be easy to
crash radio, but it wasn't. He wandered
around the country, and eventually
landed in Hollywood, where he had his
own program on a local station. He left
there when a wire from NBC offered him
a job. It wasn't until he was back in
New York that he found out the job was
that of page-boy, but he took it anyway.

Ted was fascinated by the Novachord,
which is an electric instrument with a
weird, beautiful tone, and when NBC
bought some of them he practiced on one
every noon hour. Soon he became so
proficient that he was playing for day-
time programs and making about $1,000
a week. He's given all that up now,
and devotes his time to his own shows.

His enthusiam for the big farm he has
bought in New Jersey is no pose. He
intends to run the farm so it makes a
profit, and has a huge library of farming
books. All his knowledge doesn't come
out of books, either — he was wise enough
to pick land that had several springs on it,
with the result that last May, when other
farmers were worrying over the pro-
longed dry spell, Ted's crops were fine.

^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 30: Tonight's your last chance to

hear The Amazing Mr. Smith, on Mutual

at 8:00. It's leaving the air.
July 7: Another departure, after tonight,

is the Lux Theater on CBS. It'll be

back next fall, as usual.
July 14: Taking the Lux Theater's place

is Forecast.

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TUESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

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NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn
NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

£1% Hy,mns °' a" Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson
CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Vagabonds
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph
CBS: Stepmother
N|C-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red : Bachelor's Children
CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

£1% Mary Lee Taylor
NBC- Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister

NBC-Blue. Alma Kitchell

NBC- Red: The Goldbergs

£1?; A""t Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

£1?.: J?"!en,a Girl ™»rries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

£1?.: *omance °» Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour
CBS: Our Gal Sunday
CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young
CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

£1% .young Dr. Malone

NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne

NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The. Guiding Light

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine

NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

NBC- Red: Stella Dallas

NBC- Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin

NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC- Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Scattergood Baines

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC- Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: News

CBS: Paul Sullivan

CBS: The World Today

NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

NBC- Red: Fred Waring's Gang

CBS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

NBC-Red: European News

CBS: Helen Menken

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

8:00
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CBS: Court of Missing Heirs

MBS: Wythe Williams

NBC-Red: Johnny Presents

CBS: FIRST NIGHTER

NBC-Blue: Uncle Jim's Question Bee

NBC-Red: Horace Heidt

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: We, the People

NBC-Blue: Grand Central Station

NBC-Red: Battle of the Sexes

NBC-Blue: News
NBC-Red: Haphazard Show

NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man
CBS: Glenn Miller
MBS: Raymond Gram Swing
NBC-Blue: New American Music

CBS: Public Aflairs

NBC-Red: College Humor
NBC-Blue: Edward Weeks

CBS: News ot the World

RADTO AND TELEVISION MIRROH

WEDNESDAY

9:15
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15 NBC-Blue Who's Blue
NBC-Red Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue Ray Perkins

NBC-Blue BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Betty Crocker

NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Morris

NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett

NBC- Red: Bess Johnson

CBS Myrt and Marge

NBC-Blue: Vagabonds

NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother

NBC- Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage

NBC-Blue: Wife Saver

NBC- Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Treat Time

NBC-Red: Mary Martin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories

NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS

NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries

NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent

NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful

MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White

MBS: Edith Adams' Future

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

8:00
8:00
8:00
8:00

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8:30
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CBS: Right to Happiness

MBS: Government Girl

CBS: Road of Life

MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS. Young Dr. Malone

NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne

NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine

NBC- Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

NBC- Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Blue: Edgar A. Guest

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin

NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Soattergood Baines

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: Bob Trout

CBS: Hedda Hopper

CBS: Paul Sullivan

CBS: The World Today

NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang

CBS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

NBC-Red: European News

CBS: Meet Mr. Meek
MBS: The Lone Ranger

NBC-Blue: Quiz Kids
NBC-Red: Tony Martin

NBC-Red: How Did You Meet

CBS: Dr. Christian

MBS: Boake Carter

NBC-Blue: Manhattan at Midnight

NBC- Red: Plantation Party

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: Millions for Defense
MBS: Gabriel Heatter
NBC-Blue: Hemisphere Revue
NBC-Red: Mr. District Attorney

NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

CBS: Glenn Miller
MBS: Raymond Gram Swing
NBC-Blue: Author's Playhouse
NBC-Red: KAY KYSER

CBS: Public Affairs

30 CBS: Juan Arvizu

30 NBC-Blue: Doctors at Work

4slcBS: News of the World

Radio's Munros are really Mar-
garet Heckle and Neal Keehn.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

The Munros, on NBC-Blue every Mon-
day through Friday at 2:30 P.M., Eastern
Daylight Time.

If you think your life is difficult -or
complicated, you ought to listen to that
of Gordon and Margaret Munro. With
the possible exception of the Easy Aces,
they are the most involved couple
on the air. Gordon is a young news-
paper reporter who has recently ob-
tained a job in New York. Margaret is
his delightfully scatter-witted wife. Other
characters very seldom appear in the
Munro episodes. They aren't really need-
ed, because Gordon and Margaret supply
all the excitement one quarter-hour pro-
gram can stand.

Off the air, Gordon and Margaret are
played by Neal Keehn and Margaret
Heckle. Neal and Margaret are not mar-
ried to each other, although for years
they have collaborated on radio programs
in which they played man and wife, and
they frequently argue with each other
so furiously it's hard to believe they
aren't married. They met when they were
both attending the University of Wiscon-
sin, and began their radio career soon
afterwards.

They write their own scripts, and Gor-
don and Margaret are really composite
portraits of several of their friends, plus
a good many of their own personal char-
acteristics thrown in for good measure.
For instance, if you heard their amusing
birthday sequence on the air, it's interest-
ing to know that Neal and Margaret
really do have the same birthday, just
as their air characters had.

Give some of the credit for their amus-
ing programs to Arthur Hanna, the NBC
staff producer who directs the program.
Arthur, a young, energetic fellow who
came to NBC from the theater, frequent-
ly suggests situations which would make
good scripts, and Neal and Margaret write
them.

•^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 25: Say goodbye until fall to two
comedians at 9: 00 tonight — Eddie Cantor
on NBC and Fred Allen on CBS.

July 2: Taking Fred Allen's time on
CBS is a new program on behalf of the
Government's bond-selling campaign.
. . . Big Town gives its last broadcast on
CBS at 8:00.

July 3: Your Marriage Club changes time,
to tonight at 7:30, on CBS.

July 10: Last broadcast tonight for Fannie
Brice's program. It will be back in
seven weeks.

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THURSDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15]NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red Gene and Glenn

00 NBC-Blue BREAKFAST CLUB

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45JCBS: Hymns of All Churches
45iNBC-Red Edward MacHugh

00 CBS: By Kathleen Norris
00 NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
00 NBC- Red: Bess Johnson

15 CBS: Myrt and Marge
15 NBC-Blue: Vagabonds
15 NBC-Red Ellen Randolph

30 CBS. Stepmother

30 NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis

30 NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

45
45

00
00
15
15

30
30
30

45
45

00
00

15
15

30
30

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Mary Lee Taylor
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Blue: Richard Kent
NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music
CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of He. _n Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautilul
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

30 CBS: Right to Happiness
30 MBS: Government Girl

45 CBS: Road of Life

45 MBS: I'll Find My Way

00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone

00 NBC-Red: Light of the World

15 CBS: Girl Interne

15 NBC-Red: Mystery Man

30 CBS: Fletcher Wiley
30 NBC-Blue: The Munros
30 NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

45 NBC-Blue: Midstream

45 NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

00 CBS: Mary Margaret McBride
00 NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
00 NBC-Red: Against the Storm

15 CBS: Frank Parker

15 NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

15 NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

30 CBS: A Friend in Deed

30 NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

30 NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

45 CBS: Adventures in Science

45 NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

45 NBC- Red: Vic and Sade

00 NBC-Blue: Mother of Mine

00 NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

15 NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

15 NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

45 NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

00 CBS: Mary Marlin

00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

15 CBS: The Goldbergs

15 NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life
30 CBS: The O'Neills

30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

30 NBC-B.ue: We, the Abbotts

45 CBS: Scattergood Baines

45 NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

45 NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

00 CBS: Edwin C Hill

10 CBS: News

15 CBS: Bob Edge

30 CBS: Paul Sullivan

30 NBC-Red: Rex Stout

45 CBS: The World Today

45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

00 CBS. Amos 'n' Andy

00 NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

00 NBC-Red: Fred Wiring's Gang

15 CBS: Lanny Ross

15 NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

15 NBC-Red: European News

30 CBS: Your Marriage Club

30 NBC-Red: Xavier Cugat

45 NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

00 CBS: Proudly We Hail

00 MBS: Wythe Williams

00 NBC-Blue: Pot o' Gold

00 NBC-Red: Fannie Brice

30 NBC-Blue: The World's Best

SSCBS: Elmer Davis

00 CBS: MAJOR BOWES

00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter

00 NBC-Red: KRAFT MUSIC HALL

30 NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

00 CBS Glenn Miller

00 NBC-Blue: Toronto Philharmonic

00 NBC-Red: Rudy Vallee

IS CBS Professor Quiz

30'NBC-Blue: Ahead of the Headlines

30 NBC-Red: Listener's Playhouse

45 CHS News of the World

AUGUST, 1941

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FRIDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

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«|4S|

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(,:'.'.

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'i
')
9
')
I
9

8:00 10
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8:4sll0

15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue

15 NBC- Red: Gene and Glenn

00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

15 NBC-Red: Isabel Manning Hewson

45 CBS: Betty Crocker

45 NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

00 CBS: By Kathleen Norris

00 NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett

00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

15 CBS: Myrt and Marge

15 NBC-Blue: Vagabonds

15 NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

30 CBS: Stepmother

30 NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis

30 NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

45 CBS: Woman of Courage

45 NBC-Blue: Wife Saver

45 NBC- Red: The Road of Life

00 CBS: Treat Time

00 NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

15 CBS: Martha Webster

15 NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

30 CBS: Big Sister

30 NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories

45 NBC-Red: David Harum

00 CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS

00 NBC-Red: Words and Music

15 CBS: When a Girl Marries

15 NBC-Red: The O'Neills

30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
30 NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour
45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Edith Adams' Future
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Government Girl
CBS: Road of Lite
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World
CBS: Girl Interne
NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley
NBC-Blue: The Munros
NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride
NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hil
NBC- Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: A Friend in Deed
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Exploring Space
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red Vic and Sade

NBC- Blue: Mother of Mine
NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red:
NBC-Red:

Lorenzo Jones
Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin -,

NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Scattergood Baines

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: Bob Trout

CBS: Hedda Hopper

CBS: Paul Sullivan

CBS: The World Today

. in Blue: Lowell Thomas
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

BS Amos 'n' Andy
NBI Red Fred Warlng't Gang
I MS Lanny Ron
NUC-Rcd: European Newr
M US The Lone Ranger
N li' -Red: Sammy Kaye
I B Red Claudia
NBI •Blue: Auction Quiz
NBC Red Cities Service Concert
\ Bl Blue: Death Valley Days

I INFORMATION PLEASE
< us
i ii

Elmer Davis

Great Moments from Great

Plays
Mils Gabriel Heatter

Blue: Bon Bernle
NBC Red Waltz Time

Blue Your Happy Birthday
NBC-Red Uncle]Walter's Dog Hous

II NBI Blue The Nickel Man
00 ' BS Hollywood Premiere
00 MBS Raymond Gram Swing
00 Bl Red Wings of Destiny
10 ' B I Penthouse Party
45CBS: News of the World

Dorothy Kilg alien is Broad-
way's "Voice" on her CBS show.

HAVE YOU TUNED

The Voice of Broadway, starring Doro-
thy Kilgallen, sponsored by Johnson &
Johnson on CBS Saturday morning at
11:30, E.D.T., rebroadcast to the West at
10:30 A.M. Pacific Time.

You wouldn't think, talking to Dorothy
Kilgallen, that she was ever a specialist
in murders. She's delicate, soft-voiced,
pretty and very feminine. But the fact
remains that at a time in her life when
most girls are thinking about what soro-
rity they'll join, she was her newspaper's
star reporter of murders and murder
trials. She went on from there to be the
first woman reporter to fly around the
world, and on her return went to Holly-
wood to write some movie scenarios and
act in one picture herself. After that
she came back to New York, started a
Broadway gossip column that's read by
millions, wrote short stories for maga-
zines, got married, and recently made her
radio debut on The Voice of Broadway,
her own program.

Quite a full life for a young woman
who is a long way from reaching her
thirtieth birthday — but not one of her
adventures ever excited Dorothy as much
as the baby she is due to have in July.
She expects to miss just one of her broad-
casts, and fervently hopes that the rea-
son for her absence won't be announced
on the air.

Dorothy's husband is Richard Kollmar,
the radio and stage actor. They're mar-
ried because both of them are crazy about
swing music. Their first date together
was a spur-of-the-moment affair when,
having met at a party, they went to a
New York hotel to hear a new swing
band led by an unknown named Artie
Shaw.

They live a busy, haphazard and thor-
oughly happy life in a New York apart-
ment, going to all theater and night-club
openings together. They used to stay up
until all hours, but since the baby has
been on its way Dorothy has given that
up. She has even taken to eating real
breakfasts, which she hates.

"^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

June 27: Kate Smith gives her last night-
time broadcast of the season — but she'll
be on five days a week, at noon,
throughout the summer.

July 4: Celebrate the Fourth any way
you like, but don't forget to be thank-
ful that America is still free.

July 12: A new variety program, spon-
sored by Rinso, starts today on NBC-
Red at 11:30 A.M.

0r-

7:00
7:00
7:00

7:05

SATURDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:00JCBS: News of Europe
8:00 NBC-Red News

8:15
8:15

8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00
9:00

NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

CBS Hillbilly Champions
NBC-Blue: Dick Leitert

NBC-Blue: Josh Higgins
NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

CBS. Press News
NBC-Blue: Breakfast Club
NBC-Red: News

9:05 NBC-Red: Happy Jack

9:00
10:30

8:00
8:00

9:30
8:30
8:30

9:00
9:00

9:15

9:30
9:30
9:30
9:30

9:45

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2:45
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7:00
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7:15 9:15 CBS: Burl Ives

7:15 9:15 NBC-Red: Market Basket

9:30 CBS: Old Dirt Dobber

9:30 NBC-Red: Music for Everyone

10:00 CBS: The Life of Riley
10:00 NBC-Blue: Richard Kent
10:00 NBC-Red: Bright Idea Club

10:30 CBS: Gold if You Find It

10:45 NBC-Red: Happy Jack

11:00 NBC-Red: Lincoln Highway
11:05 CBS: Honest Abe

11:30 CBS: Dorothy Kilgallen

11:30 NBC-Blue- Our Barn

11:30 NBC-Red: Rinso Variety Show

12:00 CBS: Country Journal

12:00 NBC-Red: Nat'l Fed. Women'* Clubs

12:30 CBS: Stars Over Hollywood
12:30 NBC-Blue: Farm Bureau
12:30 NBC-Red: Call to Youth

12:45 CBS: Jobs for Defense

1:00 CBS: Let's Pretend

1:00 MBS: We Are Always Young

1:15 MBS: Edith Adams' Future

1:30 CBS: Brush Creek Follies
1:30 MBS: Government Girl
1:30 NBC-Blue: Cleveland Calling
1:30 NBC- Red: Masters Orchestra

1:45 MBS: I'll Find My Way

2:00 CBS: No Politics

2:00 NBC-Blue: Indiana Indigo

2:30 CBS: Of Men and Books
2:30 NBC-Red: Jenkins Orchestra

3:00 CBS: Dorian String Quartet
3:00 NBC-Blue: Bobby Byrnes Orch.
3:00 NBC-Red: Nature Sketches

3:15 NBC-Red: Golden Melodies

3:30 NBC-Red: Guy Hedlund Players

4:00 CBS: Calling Pan-America
4:00 NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
4:00 NBC-Red: Campus Capers

4:30 NBC-Red: A Boy, a Girl, and a Band

5:00 CBS: Matinee at Meadowbrook
5:00 NBC-Blue: Tommy Dorsey
5:00 NBC-Red: The World Is Yours

6:00 CBS: Report to the Nation
6:00 NBC-Red: Spivak Orch.

6:05 NBC-Blue: Dance Music

8:00
8:00
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8:30
8:30

9:00
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10:00
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CBS: Elmer Davis
NBC-Blue: Vass Family
NBC-Red: Religion in the News

CBS: The World Today
NBC-Blue: Edward Tomlinson
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: People's Platform
NBC-Blue: Message of Israel
NBC-Red: Defense for America

CBS: Wayne King

NBC-Blue: Little 01' Hollywood

NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

CBS: Guy Lombardo

NBC-Blue: Boy Meets Band
NBC-Red: Latitude Zero

NBC-Blue: Man and the World

NBC-Blue: Bishop and the Gargoyle
NBC-Red: Truth or Consequences

CBS: YOUR HIT PARADE
MBS: Gabriel Heatter
NBC-Blue: Spin and Win
NBC-Red: National Barn Dance

MBS: Contact

NBC-Blue: NBC Summer Symphony

CBS: Saturday Night Serenade

MBS: Chicago Concert
NBC-Red: Uncle Ezra

CBS: Public Affairs

CBS: Girl About Town

CBS: News of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Pick Malone (left) and Pat
Padgett are the real names of
January and Molasses, comedy
stars of the Dr. Pepper Parade.

MOLASSES 'N' JANUARY

THERE are millions of Molasses 'n'
January fans who know these
blackface comics through their week-
ly radio series, the Dr. Pepper Parade,
but there are very few who know
them intimately, personally through
working with them and for them. For
several years now I have been writing
jokes for them, and so I've a pretty
good idea of both boys and I'm going
to give you an unbiased sketch of
them as they really are.

First and foremost, I've discovered
these lads are real troupers. In the
old tradition, they believe the show
must go on. One summer Pat Pad-
gett, who plays the part of Molasses,
was suffering severely from a mus-
cular strain. Not wishing to leave
his sponsor in a jam, he continued
broadcasting for seven or eight weeks
although suffering severe pain.

At least a couple of times before
Pat has demonstrated he is more than
a good trouper. One time after a dress
rehearsal Pat received a telegram in-
forming him that his wife was seri-
ously ill and in the hospital. Yet with
that knowledge, he still went on the
air. It was too near the broadcast
to get anyone to take his place.

That was a real ordeal. But he had
an even tougher one a year later.
This time the starkest of tragedy en-
tered his life. Immediately preceding
his broadcast, he got news that his
wife had died. Knowing that the
show was set and that it was too late
to secure a substitute act, he again
went on.

And as for Pick Malone, who plays

AUGUST, 1941

By MORT LEWIS

(Their Gag Writer and Producer of
NBC's Behind the Mike Program)

the part of January, well, every once
in a while Pick has trouble with his
dental equipment. I've seen him ap-
pear at rehearsals with his jaws
swollen to almost twice normal size
from abscessed teeth, and still go on
that night with a grand performance.

Away from the microphone and the
written scripts, few comedians are
really funny. But Pick is one of the
funniest. And Pat, although not bub-
bling with mirth has a grand collec-
tion of darky stories. He also has one
practical joke he dearly loves to play
which is likely to cause you acute
embarrassment. Should you criticize
some person, in Pat's hearing Pat is
likely to raise his eyebrows and shake
his head slightly as if he were sig-
nalling to you that the person you
are talking about has just entered the
room and is standing in back of you.
Red in the face, you turn around, and
discover no one.

Pat, the more conservative of the
two has never forgotten the financial
hardships he underwent before he
achieved success. Pick is more likely
to spend money for the mere sake of
spending it. He is not nearly as for-
ward looking as the canny Pat. Pat,
on the other hand has established
a big trust fund for himself, he regu-
larly saves a certain part of his salary
and makes safe investments. Pat
looks ahead. Sometime ago he bought

a lovely 120 acre estate down in Vir-
ginia. Now Pat will never have to
worry about taking care of himself in
his old age.

The nicest part of the relationship
between the two is that they are really
friends. "This place is Pick's as much
as it is mine," Pat says, speaking of
his Virginia estate.

For some reason, which I have as
yet been unable to discover, both boys
address each other "Willie." Neither
of them is named "Willie" and no-
body else calls them by that name.

The apple of Pat's eye is his son.
Bobby. The happiest moments Pat
knows is when he is together with
Bobby. This is just about as often
as he can ween him away from the
school the boy attends. Pick has two
boys. Pat's youngster, Bobby, and
the younger of Pick's sons can imi-
tate their fathers' dialects to perfec-
tion. In fact, Pick and Pat seriously
considered while they were away on
vacation, having their sons make
guest appearances as Pick and Pat
Junior. However, after thinking it
over, the fathers decided the boys
were too young to begin their radio
careers, much to their sons' regret.

But in the back of their minds is
the fixed thought that maybe some-
day when they have finished with the
air, they'll be able to sit home, turn
on their radio and through the loud-
speaker hear words that will thrill
them both — "Introducing those two
grand blackface comedians. Pick and
Pat Junior, — the sons, carrying on, in
the tradition of the fathers."

These are the gentlemen who thrill you on the I Love a Mystery
show heard Monday nights at 8:00, E.D.T., over the NBC-Blue. Left
to right, Jack Packard, played by Michael Raffetto, Doc Long, played
by Barton Yarborough, and Reggie York, played by Walter Paterson.

Young Doctor Malone

(Continued from page 23)

she didn't understand her own re-
actions. The woman who was urg-
ing her husband to go somewhere
without her didn't seem to be the real
Ann Malone. Her words were dic-
tated by someone else, someone who
took a perverse delight in being con-
trary and difficult. Ann rather hated
that person, and wished she could
escape from her domination.

ON Saturday morning, before Jerry
had returned from the hospital,
the telephone rang. It was Veronica
Farrell.

"I tried to get the doctor at his
office," she said, "but he'd already
left. I wonder if he could give me a
lift out to Mrs. Smythe's? Some-
thing inside my car has gone mys-
teriously wrong, and the garage man
tells me it will take hours to fix it."

In the instant of time before she
answered smoothly, "I'm sure he
could, Mrs. Farrell," Ann realized
several things. Veronica had been in-
vited to the house-party too, and
Jerry hadn't told her. And, from the
way she spoke, Veronica knew that
Jerry was driving out there alone,
without his wife.

Veronica said, "I'm staying with
Jessie Hughes for a few days, so the
doctor can pick me up there . . . It's
a shame you don't feel up to coming
too."

Ann murmured politely before she
hung up.

Is this jealousy? she wondered. But
I've never been jealous before. It
makes me feel horrible.

When Jerry came home, and she
gave him Veronica's message, it
shamed her to see his frown and hear

him say it was a nuisance. All at once
she wished she could undo her previ-
ous silliness and go with him — only
this time she wished it because it
would please him and because her
perverse demon had suddenly retired,
leaving her to realize that the house-
party probably would have turned out
to be fun for both of them.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Jerry
said wistfully, "Sure you won't change
your mind, Ann?"

She would have given anything to
be able to say yes, but Veronica Far-
rell had made that impossible. If she
went now, it would look as if she
were a suspicious wife who had de-
cided to tag along as soon as she'd
learned Veronica was going.

"No, darling," she said. "I'd really
rather not."

JERRY'S lips tightened. "Okay," he
J said briefly. "I'll be home Sunday
night after dinner." He kissed her,
said goodbye to Penny and Bun, and
was gone.

Saturday afternoon and Sunday
were interminable — but at last they
were over and Jerry was home again
and it was almost as if that unpleasant
house-party incident had never hap-
pened. Almost — but not quite. Jerry
told her, entirely without embarrass-
ment, of the people he'd met on Long
Island, of the tennis he'd played and
the meals he'd eaten, and the couple
of times he'd danced with Veronica —

He was calling her Veronica now,
all the time.

It was horrible to be like this — sus-
picious, watchful, creating heartbreak
for oneself. Still — was it all in her
own mind? At times she was certain

that Jerry had changed in some subtle
way since the Long Island party. He
seemed to have drawn away from
her. He gave her only a part of him-
self, while the rest — the real Jerry —
was locked away in some remote
corner of his mind that she could not
enter. It was no longer possible for
their thoughts and emotions to flow
effortlessly from one to the other
without the clumsy intermediary of
words. They were two people now,
two people who had lost the precious
knack of being one.

Ann was relieved, and hated her-
self for being relieved, when Veronica
Farrell left New York.

It had been November when Jerry
joined Dr. Dunham. Now it was De-
cember, and the stores along Fifth
Avenue were reminding you that
Christmas was on its way. Ann was
glad. This was only the second Christ-
mas of their married life; last year,
although they hadn't had much money
to spend, she and Jerry had made a
beautiful festival of the season. They
both loved Christmas so much — she
would let the holidays help her in
breaking through that unaccountable
barrier which had risen between
them.

BUT a week before Christmas Day
Jerry came home early, full of ex-
citement. A long-distance telephone
call had summoned him to an island
off the Georgia coast, to diagnose and
possibly operate on none other than
J. H. Griffin— the J. H. Griffin whose
name was always in the financial col-
umns of the newspapers, and fre-
quently in the national and political
columns as well.

"He's a friend of Mrs. Hughes,"
Jerry said. "I guess she recommended
me. Anyway, his secretary called up
this morning, wouldn't take no for an
answer. I'm catching the three
o'clock plane."

The apartment sprang into activity
— Penny pressing a light-weight suit,
Ann helping Jerry to pack his one
suitcase, Bun telephoning for plane
reservations. In the midst of it all
Ann stopped, struck by a sudden
thought.

"Jerry — you'll be back for Christ-
mas?"

"Oh, I should think so," he said
carelessly. "I don't expect to stay
long after I operate. If I operate at
all, that is. I don't even know what's
the matter with the old boy."

"Please try . . ."

His arms went around her, held her
close. "I'll be here Christmas Eve if
I have to bring Griffin with me and
operate on him under the tree," he
promised tenderly.

It was on Tuesday that Jerry left.
On Thursday morning she got a let-
ter from him — a page of his nearly-
illegible doctor's scrawl on thick,
creamy-white paper with "Lagoon
House" engraved in an upper corner.

"Dearest Ann — This is the kind of
place they build on movie sets. A
big rich man's colony on an island the
Indians must have hated to lose.
There's a luxury hotel, and lots of
fancy private homes, and a miniature
but fantastically equipped hospital.
Old Griffin's is the biggest estate on
the island, so you can imagine.

"I'm operating on him tomorrow
morning. It's rotten luck, dear, but
I may have to stay on for a while to
watch him, because it's a tricky op-
eration. Besides, he's an autocratic
old codger and I don't think anybody
has ever said no to him. He'd prob-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

ably have apoplexy if he heard the
word. If I'm not able to make it home
for Christmas we'll have our own
private Malone brand of Christmas
later.

"Give my love to Penny and Bun,
but keep most of it for yourself."

Then a postscript:

"It wasn't Mrs. Hughes who recom-
mended me after all, but Veronica
Farrell. She's here as Griffin's guest."

Ann folded the letter into its
original creases and carefully put it
back into its envelope, watching with
a kind of amazement the precise
movements of her fingers. How could
they be so nimble, so certain, when
her heart felt as if it were frozen?

Penny, across the breakfast table,
watched her with shrewd sympathy.
"What's the doctor say?" she asked.

"Why, he — he's busy. He's operat-
ing today. He — "

The words stuck in her throat. She
could see nothing but Bun's round
shocked eyes, a piece of toast halted
on its way to his mouth, and then the
tears she couldn't keep back shat-
tered even that vision.

"I'm sorry," she said a little later,
when Penny had made her lie down.
"I'm ashamed of myself. Acting like a
baby ... so silly . . ."

"There, now," Penny soothed her.
"I know just how you feel. I bet the
doctor wrote he couldn't be back
home for Christmas."

YES," Ann said. "And I was so dis-
appointed I guess I — lost control
of myself." She couldn't tell anyone,
not even Penny, the whole truth. She
couldn't say, "The reason I cried is
because I'm jealous — because I just
found out that a woman I'm terribly
afraid of is with Jerry on that beau-
tiful Southern island."

Because what was there, except
her instinct, to make her afraid of
Veronica Farrell? And instinct might
be only nerves, imagination, or even
resentment because Jerry had gone
against her advice in taking the posi-
tion which had first brought Veronica
into their lives.

"I'll be all right," she assured
Penny. "A doctor's wife shouldn't be
so sentimental about Christmas."

Bun, from the doorway, said, "We'll
just pretend Christmas doesn't come
until Jerry gets back."

Pretending wasn't so easy, though.
When the day before Christmas came,
and brought a wire from Jerry saying
that he'd have to stay over another
few days, an atmosphere of restrained
gloom settled down over the apart-
ment. They'd bought a tree, because
you probably wouldn't be able to get
one after Christmas, and that evening
they made a brave show of decorating
it, but the feeling of festivity was
missing.

At ten o'clock, when the tree was
all finished and there was nothing left
to do, Penny said quietly, "Why don't
you call the doctor up, Ann?"

"You knew I wanted to, didn't
you?" Ann said with a shamefaced
little smile. "Only — I was hoping he'd
call me."

"It's getting late. He'll be thinking
pretty soon that you've gone to bed."

Ann hesitated. "I'll wait until
eleven," she finally decided. "Then,
if he hasn't called, I will."

Bun immediately begged and re-
ceived permission to stay up until
then, and he and Penny settled down
to a game of double solitaire on the
card-table. Ann, sitting beside them

AUGUST, 1941

— Sure, you look a mess.
Feel a little queer inside, too,
don't you? But mother'll take
care of your tummy and I'll
have that suit looking like new
before you can say Fels-Naptba
And if you get in any more
'jams', just remember those three words — ■
Fels-Naptba Soap. They're wonderful for
keeping mothers in a good humor. . . .

When you've a house and a family to keep

spic-and-span, there's nothing like Fels-Naptha

Soap to relieve the daily strain on your

disposition. No washing job will worry you

when the two Fels-Naptha cleaners — gentle,

active naptha and richer, goldeti soap — are

on hand to help.

With this cleaning combination ready to
take over tiring tasks and do your dainty
things with gentle care, you'll find your
household ticking along like
clockwork ! . . . . Next time you're
at the grocer's, remember —
Fels-Naptha Soap.

I Little Jack Horner sat in a corner
eating his Christmas pie. He
(found a package of Dentyne on
jhis plate too, (Dentyne — the
warmly delicious chewing gum
that helps keep teeth bright).

"What's this?" said little Jack.
And since no one answered, he
went on: "Hm-m, nice looking
package — flat — convenient to
carry — easy to open."

He opened it. "Looky, six sticks
— that's generous." Then he
tasted. "Say — what a flavor —
blended just right — not hot — not
sweet — but mighty good and re-
freshing. That flavor lasts, too,
not just a few minutes but as
long as you'd want it."

Just then in popped his dentist.
"Good boy, Jack," said the den-
tist, "chewing Dentyne is a pleas-
ant, practical way to help keep
your teeth clean and sparkling."

And little Jack smiled with satis-
faction.

{Moral: You too will smile with
satisfaction when you taste
Dentyne's luscious goodness and
see how it helps keep your teeth
bright.)

6 INDIVIDUALLY WRAPPED
STICKS IN EVERY PACKAGE

SfWW

HELPS KEEP TEETH WHITE

and pretending to watch, could think
of nothing but the telephone in the
hall. Any moment it might ring, and
she would hear Jerry's voice, know he
had been thinking of her.

That's all I ask, she thought. If he
will only call me up, I'll know I've
been foolish, building all this distrust
and doubt up in my mind. I'll know
Veronica Farrell doesn't mean a thing
to him. If only he calls me. . . .

The hands of the electric clock
glided to eleven, and the telephone
had not rung.

"Aren't you going to call Jerry,
Ann?" Bun asked.

"Yes," Ann heard herself saying.

She got up and went out to the hall,
her heels tap-tapping on the hard-
wood floor Penny had spent hours
that morning polishing. She sat down
on the little chair by the telephone
stand, and lifted the receiver.

With mechanical efficiency, the call
was put through, and she heard a
masculine voice at the other end say,
"Hello." Before she could answer, the
operator cut in: "New York is calling
Dr. Gerald Malone."

The masculine voice said quickly
and somehow anxiously, "Dr. Malone
isn't here. Who is calling, please?"

The operator ignored his question.
"Can you tell me where I can reach
him?"

"I wish I knew." This time there
could be no doubt about the man's
excitement. "He and another guest
here, a Mrs. Farrell, went sailing in
a small boat this afternoon and they
haven't returned. There's a bad storm
and—"

The receiver dropped from Ann's
hand and she stumbled to her feet,
overturning the little chair. She
called, "Penny! Penny!" and turned,
unseeing, to go back into the living
room, but one leg struck the chair and
her heel slipped on the polished floor.
She fell heavily, and lay there, feeling
pain clamp down upon her.

JERRY listened in numb silence to
what Dr. Lawrence Dunham was
saying. His mind felt detached from
his body, floating somewhere in space.
It was hard to remember now all that
had happened, although at the time
it had seemed vivid and terrible. Mr.
Griffin had been asleep, that after-
noon, and Veronica had suggested a
sail out to Pirate Island, to give him
some fresh air. The sea had been like
glass. They'd beached the boat, and
wandered along the beach for a while,
then sat and talked in the sun. He'd
felt drowsy, comfortable.

Then the sun was gone, and it was
cold, and Veronica was shaking him.
Their boat had drifted away, and a
storm was coming up. Even so, it
might not have been so bad. The

storm wasn't a fierce one, as tropical
storms go, and the Coast Guard had
picked them up the next morning,
little the worse except for a thorough
wetting. It was the news awaiting
him at Lagoon House when they ar-
rived there that was so unbelievably
horrible . . .

All the way up to New York in the
plane he had seen the words of the
telegram floating in the air, in front
of his eyes. "Ann lost baby hurry
home — Penny." And he'd heard, ovei
and over again, the words of Griffin's
secretary: "I think your wife tried to
call you last night — before I realized
she could hear what I said I told the
operator you were out in the storm,
missing."

THAT was all he'd needed to know,
' leally. Dunham didn't have to go on
telling him how Ann had been so
shocked that in getting up from the
telephone desk she'd stumbled, fallen
across the chair. That — the mechanics
of how it had happened — was so un-
important now.

"Yes, I understand," he cut the
other doctor short. "But why can't
I see her? You tell me she's all right,
but you won't let me go in there and
talk to her. Why?"

"Well — " Dunham's pink face grew
pinker with uneasiness. "Well, you
see, it's like this, Jerry. Last night,
when I got here, Mrs. Malone was in
great pain but all she could think of
was you. She was sure you'd been
drowned. Finally, around dawn, I
gave her a sedative. By the time she
came out of it we'd heard you were
safe, and I told her."

Dunham stopped abruptly.

"Well? What happened then?" Jer-
ry asked impatiently.

"She was relieved as the dickens,
of course. But all at once she seemed
to remember why I was there, and she
asked me about the baby. I had to
tell her she'd — lost it. And then she
froze up. Didn't pay any more atten-
tion to me. I told her you were on
your way here, and all she said was,
'He should have come home sooner —
for Christmas.' Now, that was a funny
thing to say, wasn't it?"

Jerry, his head bowed, said, "It's
true, though. I should have. If I had,
this wouldn't ever have happened.
She knows it, and I know it."

How greatly will Ann blame Jerry
for the loss of the child who was to
have meant so much to them? Will
they be able to find their way back
to the confidence and understanding
they once knew? Reserve your copy
of the September Radio Mirror now,
in order to be sure not to miss the
next dramatic instalment.

JACK FRASER — NBC announcer who's heard frequently on The
Gospel Singer and other programs. Jack comes from Lawrence,
Mass., and studied in the University of Maine and later at Brown,
emerging from his classrooms with a Ph.D. degree in English. He
was always enthusiastic about music, and his fine baritone voice led
him to occasional radio work while he was still in college. After
graduation he joined the staff of a New York station, and came to
NBC in 1936. He particularly likes to announce sports and news
events, and is interested in all sports, both as an observer and a
participant. In college he went in for all of them, but when he never
got beyond being an "also-ran," he became a cheer-leader instead.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

How Frances Langford
Remade Her Beauty

(Continued from page 11)

"I didn't even want to meet Jon,"
Frances confessed. And she told me
about the time when both of them
were making personal appearances in
New York and she had gone to "21"
with George Jean Nathan. Jon was
there, at another table, and someone
pointed him out to her as the new
heart-throb of two thirds of the wo-
men in the country. Frances was so
afraid she would have to meet him,
that she couldn't bring herself to
look in his direction the whole eve-
ning.

"Isn't it a shame?" Jon asked me.
"Look at all the time we wasted."

Frances laughed and I noticed that
even her laugh had changed. It was
freer, soft and warm. Her speaking
voice has grown fuller and more
beautiful, too, and there's hardly a
trace of her southern accent left. And
I understand from her director that
she's becoming a better actress every
day, mainly because of her newly
found self confidence.

CRANCES was called to the micro-
1 phone, and as I watched her walking
across the studio, I couldn't help
thinking that many women might pro-
fit by her experience. I don't suppose
there's a woman alive who doesn't
realize that the way you look has a
lot to do with the way you feel. But
what they don't see is that it isn't
at all hard to change your outward
appearance and give your spirit the
lift it needs that way.

After her song was over, Frances
came back and I asked her lots more
questions.

She told me, for instance, that
when she's working, she prefers
hot baths to showers, because they're
more relaxing and they don't affect
the curl in her hair as much as the
steam in showers does; that she tends
her hands very carefully, creaming
them every time she washes them and
getting a manicure once a week; that
she likes to sleep at least ten hours a
day, because she feels better when she
does; that she always tries to stand
very erect; that she wears sun glasses
outdoors to prevent frown lines and,
when her eyes are tired, she uses an
eye lotion; that she loves the luxurious
feeling of a rub down with her favor-
ite cologne after a bath. But none of
these things explain more than how
Frances maintains the change that has
taken place in her.

Frances Langford has changed,
simply by finding the courage to seek
out her own personality and to bring
it out in every possible way. In over-
coming her timidity about her clothes
and make-up, she overcame her shy-
ness and temerity about lots of other
things.

She carefully worked an outward
metamorphosis and the inner one fol-
lowed quite naturally.

Yes, there is something about a
perky hat, or a brightly colored dress,
when you've been accustomed to
thinking of yourself in conservative,
retiring clothes. You find you've got
to live up to it. And anyone who says
you can't change yourself that way, is
no woman.

AUGUST, 1941

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Stay Close to Me

(Continued from page 13)

My broadcast was based on stuff I'd
got at dinner so I typed it out early
and gave it to the censor to chew over
while I killed time playing bridge
with some of the boys.

An apprentice named Harry, a red-
haired kid under age for the army,
whom I'd often literally bumped into
when he arrived on his unlighted bi-
cycle in the pitch dark at the same
moment I got there, was on hand early
too. He seemed in such uproarious
spirits that I inquired the reason why.
As a result I almost changed the script
of my talk. For he'd been bombed
out the night before and he was here
because he had no place else to go.
The poor frame tenement in which
he lived over by the Thames docks
had been completely demolished by a
direct hit. All the technical books and
apparatus it had taken him years of
overwork and undersleep to acquire
were gone. So Harry was gay tonight.

I HAD picked up the ear phones to
' listen to what they were saying
from Vichy and Ankara when the
bomb hit our building.

We were below ground and we
heard little of the raids going on out-
side, but this time the building shud-
dered queerly like an earthquake, and
I braced myself for the explosion.

But it didn't come. I tried to settle
down, telling myself it was a dud or,
if it wasn't, there were experts on
hand to get rid of it. New York was
talking in my ear, telling me it was
just about time for me to start in, but
I kept thinking about time bombs:
how you never know whether it will
be seconds or hours or days before
they go off.

I guess it was only about two min-
utes that this endless age lasted. Any-
way, I had said, "This is London." And
then it went off. Very far away, it
couldn't have been a big one, for it
didn't knock me off my chair.

But it was big enough. I had got
my voice going, had even started talk-
ing in that lively, sort of breathless
way that makes it sound as if the
words are being spoken extemporane-
ously, hot off your chest, instead of
being read from a censored and ap-
proved manuscript. In the middle of
a sentence in the third paragraph two
men went by the door, carrying a
third, on a stretcher. Only the third
was not a man any more. It was tech-
nically known as a body, the face
covered by the blanket. But they
hadn't covered enough. A shock of
red hair still showed. It was Harry.
It was the boy who had kept us laugh-

ing all evening with him because he
had to keep from crying. Now he
would never laugh or cry again.

I don't know how I got through my
broadcast, because for the first time it
had hit me. I hated war. I was sick
with war.

I stumbled out of the studio without
saying goodnight to anyone, passed
the sandbags and the sentries at the
entrance who for once were not
frozen-faced. They tried to urge me
not to go out on the street. But I
hardly heard them.

It was really dangerous out there.
Always a popular target, tonight the
district was brightly lighted with half
a dozen big fires within a mile, which
outlined with a dull red glow the bel-
lies of the balloons far up above. The
scream of a near-falling bomb alter-
nated almost regularly with the huge
outburst of the anti-aircraft battery
in the park. Probably I threw myself
flat down each time in the regulation
position from force of habit: face in
the gutter, mouth open, hands over
ears. But I'm not sure, because I don't
remember anything clearly till the
moment I saw Judy. I know I didn't
have my tin hat fastened, because that
was the first thing she told me, when
her eyes began to focus. Neither did
she, and that was what I answered
her, and we laughed. Queer laughter,
though, if anyone heard us.

I saw her when I reached the empty
spot between two buildings. I'll never
get over the suddenness of those
empty spaces. There'll be a building
standing normal and whole except
maybe for its broken windows. Then
— nothing. For when a big bomb real-
ly does its job on a building there is
not a piece left bigger than half a
brick. On the site you see what we
call "rubble" — and dust. Always that
strange drifting dust haunting the
place, gruesome like the mist that
rises from a miasmal swamp in a
horror film.

It was against that ghostly moving
cloud that I saw Judy. She stood there
utterly still, a small dark figure hud-
dled into a man's coat, staring into
the smoky, trashy emptiness.

I'd seen others staring that way into
ruins of what had meant a lot to them,
but something about her was different.
It got me. She broke my heart, the
way she stood there.

I was watching in a sort of sick
paralysis when a heavy hand touched
my shoulder. "Would you be acquaint-
ed with the young lady?"

I shook my head. "What's she do-
ing here?"

S^/^eS>Z-

BILL PERRY— the tenor star of CBS' Saturday Night Serenade, who
started his career in Vanderbilt University by singing and playing
the trombone in a band to earn money for tuition fees. After singing
on a local station in Tennessee, he came to New York and made his
network debut in 1933. Now he's in his sixth year as star of the
Saturday Night Serenade, and has missed only one broadcast. Bill
is athletic, nearly six feet tall. His list of favorite recreations includes
almost every type of rugged sport, and he attends every prizefight
he can. His ambition is to be a concert singer like John Charles
Thomas, but he dreads the thought of singing a season or two in the
Metropolitan Opera, which would be necessary to reach that goal.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

"Nothing," he answered. "That's
wot 'urts. There's nothing to be done.
She left her 'ole family 'ere one
morning, and came 'ome that evening
to find — this."

I shuddered. I knew what he meant.
Not even a body to bury. That was
the way of a direct hit.

"Hit seems she's no one left," he
went on. "Someone said 'er 'usband
'ad been killed in the first week of the
war. Young, 'e was. Straight out of
Sand'urst."

For a moment I shared her utter,
bleak desolation. Nothing, no one left.
Nothing but drifting dust.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," the bobby
went on, "I wish you'd try to talk to
her. I can't make 'er 'ear me."

And so I spoke to her. Maybe she
heard a faint echo in my voice of what
she was feeling. Or maybe — well,
maybe it was because it happened to
be me. I believe that now. Anyway
she lifted her head and looked at me.

Hers was a queer little face, white
and worn and pinched with cold. For
this was one of those raw, damp nights
when the London weather can go
through your bones. She was not beau-
tiful, certainly not then, in that chilly
half-light. But I wasn't thinking of
beauty. It was something else in her
face that caught at me. I think now
that I saw in that first minute her
spirit, her utterly honest, gallant
purity of spirit.

\A/E moved away together, slowly at
▼ ▼ first, her feet moving in a queer
stiff jerking gait. She must have been
standing there so long that she had
almost lost the use of her muscles, and
she leaned on my arm.

Then I heard the whine of another
bomb, and I pushed her into the
mouth of a tube station we were pass-
ing. The guard told us it was full,
but brusquely added that we might as
well go in and suffocate as stay out
here and get hurt. I tried to help her
pick her way down among the tight-
packed sleeping people on the long,
unmoving escalator. But she looked
down at the contorted bodies around
her feet and shuddered, and I hadn't
the heart to drag her on. We waited
there until we heard the chump of
the bomb's landing and the explosion,
not too near. I listened to the uneven
snarl of the plane's engines, set out of
rhythm to make range-finding harder,
and decided it was leaving. I said,
"Let's run for it. I know of a place — "

She let herself be half-carried the
few blocks to the hotel where I had
my meals. We made it and went down
to the night club in the basement.

I was afraid she would feel embar-
rassed, for the girls down here all
looked as if they had stepped out of
the pages of Vogue, their hair in love-
ly shining waves above dresses cut as
subtly from as beautiful silks as any-
one had worn before the war began.
But she did not seem to be aware of
her face unpowdered by anything but
dust and soot, or the heavy man's coat
that I lifted from her shoulders and
gave to the cloakroom girl. Without
it, she looked extraordinarily differ-
ent. She wore one of those simple
dark frocks of the type you might
see on a smart secretary in any office,
but there was something exquisitely
appealing about the effect. Her neck
looked round and very tender above
the small white collar, and the dark
material outlined the gentle curves of
her shoulders and breast in a way that
made me want to cry. She was much

AUGUST, 1941

Here's where I find out how they
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too thin, of course; the belt was fas-
tened around a tiny waist, and her
skirt hung more loosely than it should
around her hips, but it wasn't that,
exactly, that seemed to hurt when I
looked at her. It was just her kind of
beauty, I know now, but then I didn't
guess what had hit me. I called it pity.

She was still silent, looking around
her but not really seeing, while I
ordered brandy and food. When it
came, I had to remind her it was
there. I tapped her glass. "This says
'drink me.' "

For the first time she smiled. She
picked up her glass and because her
hand shook she held it in both hands
like a little child. But she took a good
swallow.

She took another swallow, again
two-handed, and sat up a little
straighter. "My name is Judith —
Warren."

I GUESSED from the look on her face
' that she could not say her name
without thinking of her husband. That
wouldn't do.

"Mine is Rod Barrows," I told her.
"And this is labeled 'eat me.' " I
pointed to the plateful I'd served her
from the covered silver dishes.

Eating was hard for her. I had to
cut her meat and sometimes I had to
place her hand on her fork to keep
her at it. But she did her best, grate-
fully, like a dutiful child, and I felt
my throat tighten with aching sym-
pathy. Color did begin to come back
to her pale cheeks, faintly through
grime and weariness, and she was no
longer cold. I began to realize that
there was something quite lovely
about the shape of her face; not oval,
for it was too thin for that, but the
forehead was broad and her dark
gray eyes were set deep and wide
apart above finely formed cheekbones
whose delicacy showed almost too
clearly under the transparent skin.

When she had done all she could
about the food, she had more brandy.
For the first time she seemed to see
what went on around her, to hear
the band which was murdering some
of our best American swing music by
playing it loud and brassy like a
march to cover up the constant det-
onations of the gun across the street.
A puzzled frown made a little inden-
tation between her eyes.

"I didn't know there was a place
like this," she said curiously. "I mean,
except for that RAF uniform over
there, it's just as if — as if they didn't
know what was going on outside — "

I nodded. "And the boy in the uni-
form looks bewildered himself. I bet
he never gets this upset when he
starts out bearing gifts for Berlin — "

But her eyes shadowed again, be-
tween their heavy dark lashes. "Let's

dance," I said quickly.

She wasn't really up to dancing, as
I should have known, for what she'd
been through had exhausted her
physically as well as spiritually. But
she stood up and raised her arms to
me obediently, still following my sug-
gestions in her good-child way.

I put my arm around her slender-
ness and I felt as if I'd never danced
with a girl before. The feeling of this
girl's light body in my arms was a
completely new sensation. She was
so little, so sweet.

The music did not stop, these nights.
When one band tired, their places
were taken without a break by relief
players. But it was only a few min-
utes before I felt her stumble. She
smiled up at me apologetically, but
her face was very white.

"Ye gods, I'm sorry!" I led her to
the table. "Why did you let me
drag you out there?"

"I — I like to dance," she said with
that sweet smile.

"And I suppose you like to ride
horseback too," I told her sternly.
"But what you need now is a dose of
sleep. I'm going to buy you some."

She didn't protest while I made ar-
rangements for her to have a cot in
the safest shelter in London, which
was right through a couple of pairs of
soundproof doors from here. "You'll
see a queen, a couple of kings and
some of their sisters, and about six
heads of government-in-exile," I told
her at the entrance. "And they look
just as foolish asleep as anyone else."

She tried to laugh, but the trained
nurse who was in attendance at this
fancy shelter to help the ladies lay
away their negligees and slippers had
come to lead her to bed. And sud-
denly she was clinging to me like a
child being separated from its mother.
"I — I can't," she gasped.

WELL, you needn't, then," I told
her, patting her shoulder. I said
it easily, cheerfully, but right then a
fear began to knock at the back of my
mind, some memory warning me.
"Look out," it said the way I'd heard
it often. "Start taking care of a girl
and you never know where it'll end — "

"I think I heard the all-clear," I
told her. "So I can take you where-
ever you want to go, to get that sleep.
Got a friend hereabouts?"

She looked at me steadily for a mo-
ment and then she touched me on the
arm. "Here," she said.

That started a little private war of
my own inside me. The way she said
that touched me, choked me all up.
And yet — look out!

Still, you couldn't leave a girl like
that. I said, "Well, my place is near.
It's noisy, and they say it isn't safe,
but if you — "

S^Z/e^Z'-

VERNA FELTON — whose specialty on the air is playing mothers.
You've heard her as Dennis Day's mother on the Jack Benny program
and as the mother of practically every famous personality drama-
tized by Hedda Hopper. Verna's own mother, Clara Allen, was a
noted actress, and Verna herself began acting when she was six. In
1923 she married Lee Millar, a stage and radio star in his own
right, and now they are one of Hollywood's ideally happy couples.
They own a home with a garden composed entirely of old-fashioned
flowers, where Verna spends most of her time when she's not on
the air, and they have one son, Lee, Jr., whose nickname is Spuddy.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

She brushed safety away with a
gesture of her hand. I could guess
her life wasn't very valuable to her
right now. "Let me come with you,"
she said in her strange, direct way.

And that was how Judy came to my
place. As simply as that.

The Venetian blinds at the long
windows were slanted shut so no light
could pour out; my maid had taken
care of that all-important blackout
duty before she left. The place was
tidy and the fire was laid in the grate.
When I had touched a match to it,
things looked very cosy. She sat and
stretched out her slender legs toward
the fire, toasting her toes in the dusty
pumps. I brought her a lighted cigar-
ette and she looked up at me with a
smile that was a little different from
the obedient, childlike kind she had
given me before. She said, "Do you
know, it's very good to be here?"

QUEER, how hard I found it to
make the right answers tonight.
Where was my fund of easy, flippant-
ly casual remarks? My tongue twisted
on the feeble crack: "You don't know
how you improve the place."

I sat down beside her. I talked
to her, just rambling on about myself,
about the farm in Iowa where I'd
grown up. I told her things I hadn't
thought about for years, my mother's
starchy clean sun-smelling aprons, my
pet black pig with a white curl to his
tail who'd won me a prize at the state
fair. I didn't worry about being a
bore; I gave her a lullaby.

It seemed to work. Even though
I wasn't touching her, I could feel
her relax beside me on the sofa.

When I stopped for lack of breath
she said, softly: "I liked that. I like
somehow to know that you grew up
on a farm, too. Even one so far from
ours in Berk — "

"Berkshire! What do you mean,
far? My pig was a Berkshire!"

She laughed, really laughed. And
as if it had given her enough cheer to
keep her company for a few minutes
without me, she went away to scrub
off her grime and dust. While she
was gone, I pulled myself up sharp
again. "You're slipping," I told my-
self. "It's a sure sign, when a guy
starts telling tales of his childhood.
Snap out of it."

But when she came back she didn't
give me a chance. She said "I'd like
to tell you some stories, now. I should
like you to know about me."

And she went right on to tell me,
in that dreamy voice that calls back
scenes that have a special meaning,
a fragrance, because they are part of
one's beginning. But she didn't stop
there; she brought the story on to
London where her talent had led her.
She had become an interior decorator
which in England means what it says,
means doing things with your own
hands, creating. I looked at her hands
and thought I should have known.
They were small but muscular with

She never speaks of it — yet it's a
part of her life she'll never
forget. Be sure to read

BITTER SWEET

Mary Margaret McBride's

Secret Romance

In a future issue of

RADIO MIRROR

AUGUST, 1941

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long, capable fingers. I picked up one
hand and held it in my own and felt
how firm and strong it was; warm
now, too, from my fire. It gave me a
wonderful cosy feeling about the
heart to know that.

She did not draw it away, but went
on talking, her story drawing close
— dangerously close, I thought — to the
present. She told of her engagement
to Alistair Warren, whose family's
country place had been next to her
own home in Berkshire — a boy who'd
been a friend since babyhood, so that
they'd been wheeled out to the park
in the same pram when one or the
other Nana was off duty. Their fam-
ilies had gradually made it clear that
marriage was expected to link them,
and it seemed a good idea. It was all
so pleasant and right, the way they
started, Alistair all set with his com-
mission, and the fun of planning and
decorating the exactly correct flat in
Mayfair . . .

"Look here," I said. "You're sure
you want to tell me this?"

SHE looked at me and said, "Please
If you'll let me — "

And so she told me, her voice break-
ing sometimes in a way that tore at
me inside.

When she had finished, her voice
dying away on a drawn breath and
leaving only the snapping of the coal
in the grate, I couldn't speak. I just
sat there and held her hand a little
tighter. She looked up at me, her
face wet with tears, her eyes shining,
and she said, "Thank you — "

And then she was crying. Deep,
painful sobs seemed to tear her apart.
That kind of weeping is pretty ter-
rible for anyone to watch, to hear, to

feel against your body. But I knew
it was the only way she could come
out of the inhuman, ghastly death
that had gripped her all this time. I
held her close, smoothing her hair,
not trying to stop her, but just mur-
muring the inane words that are
hardly words at all, but maybe soothe
a bit. She seemed to draw some kind
of comfort, some relief, from being
near me, for after a while her gasping
breaths eased and settled to the gentle
rhythmic weeping of a sleepy child.
And then I felt her body go soft
against me and I realized that she
had cried herself to sleep.

Nothing could be better for her, I
thought, somehow relieved on my own
account as well.

I lifted her gently in my arms and
carried her to my room. She did not
wake at all, really, while I slipped off
her shoes and drew her dress care-
fully over her head. I laid her be-
tween the sheets and tucked her in,
and she sighed deeply, the way a child
does when disturbed in its first deep
sleep, and she looked like a child, too,
when I left her, with one hand curled
under her cheek.

But I couldn't go far. I was op-
pressed with a queer, unreasoning
sense of responsibility for her. I wor-
ried about her waking, about the
thoughts that would meet her, what
she would have to face all over again,
if something should wake her —

Something! I knew what I was
waiting for, sitting there tensely by
her door, my muscles tight with listen-
ing. I knew it had been quiet long
enough. At night the all-clear means
nothing. Any minute the warning will
sound again, racing across the city,
it's harshly rising, falling scream

picked up and echoed from one siren
to another. Any minute the airplanes
will come growling over, and in the
park across the street that gun —

Then the sudden, enormous crash
seemed to swallow us up, absorbing
one's whole being, so that nothing ex-
isted but that outrageous bursting
roar. I think I stood there cursing
and swearing at it in a wild, impotent
rage I had not felt in any other raid.

I COULD hear nothing inside, of
■ course, but I was afraid for what I
might not hear. I opened the door
and went into the room. The dim light
showed Judy sitting up in bed, her
hands in fists held tight against her
mouth. If she had screamed in that
first roar of the gun and the echo
as the shell burst far above, she was
not screaming now. But the effort of
silence was terrible. She did not even
seem to see me. Her eyes were huge
and staring with a blank look of
terror that frightened me.

I spoke to her softly in the awful
silence between the devastating dou-
ble crashes, came to her bedside and
sat there a moment before I touched
her. Then I took her hand, and slowly
her head turned and she looked at me.
Her eyes changed and I felt a wild
surge of relief. She was seeing me.
The blankness had gone.

She reached for me, pulled my
shoulders closer and pressed her head
against my neck so that I could feel
her convulsive breathing. I held her
gently as one holds a child, but it was
not enough. She crept against me,
clinging as if she could not come close
enough to whatever strength she drew
from my body. Her arms were tight
around my neck, her body urgent

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

with a desperate kind of hunger.

The life I've lived has not taught
me the stern control of a saint. On
the contrary. And this was no time
for a test. I had felt tenderness for
her tonight beyond anything I had
ever known — an aching longing, pain-
ful kind of desire to hold and protect
her. But I had fought this feeling, so
that my emotions had been sensitized,
rubbed absolutely raw, by the war-
fare inside me as well as outside.

DUT I take no credit for the queer
a resistance that strengthened me
against her strange needful violence,
against my overwhelming response. I
know now that my caution, the same
fear that had fought against my ten-
derness, still held me back. It would
have been more right, to give myself
generously, naturally, help her retreat
to the refuge of passion where even
the sound of the gun could not reach
her. In my blindness I blocked that
avenue of escape.

Still, I think her sanity was saved
that night.

Through the unbearable endlessness
of the double reverberations, I held
her close against me, but resolutely
gentle as I'd hold a child, talking,
murmuring, saying the things I would
have said to a child. And gradually
I came to know that she would be all
right. When the gun stopped, she
would sleep again. And it was true,
for the steady, firmly level sound of
the all-clear was still in my ears, the
dawn bleak against the windows,
when she relaxed, utterly limp with
exhaustion, and her head was heavy
on my shoulder.

I don't know when the all-clear
came. I didn't hear it, but I know we

slept, locked in a deep embrace, richly,
and for her it was a healing sleep.

I woke first and lay looking at her
in amazement. For she was beauti-
ful. Color had flushed her cheeks, a
soft luminous color that seemed to
glow like a light beneath the trans-
parent skin. Sleep had smoothed out
the thin, pinched look of tension and
grief. Now it was possible to see how
very young she was, how radiantly
young and lovely. She was incredibly
touching, lying there wrapped in the
peace I had played some part in giv-
ing her.

But even in that moment I did not
know what I was feeling. Already I
was starting to analyze it, and from
long habit of self-defense started to
explain it away.

It was pity that had stirred me so
deeply last night, I told myself, pity
confused with the turmoil of a wild,
war-torn moment. And this morning
it was nothing but the warm, kindly
glow of friendliness you feel when
you have helped someone through a
bad time. I tried to congratulate my-
self on keeping my head, playing safe.
But I couldn't feel pleased with my
unaccustomed virtue. It was the
hollow virtue of a coward.

Those were the things I was think-
ing when she woke up. But as her
lashes lifted I began to talk, quickly,
casually, in a steady stream of words,
any words, just to break the shock of
realization for her if I could. I saw
it, though. I saw her eyes widen
suddenly as they looked at me, widen
in horror at the knowledge, not so
much of who I was but of who I
wasn't, and who would never be with
her again.

But out of consideration for me she

forced herself to shake the thought
away, with a tremendous effort, and
smiled. Her smile grew warm and real
with memory, and she reached a hand
toward me. "Thank you," she said.

That did something to me. It upset
all my careful thoughts. It was all
right to tell myself that it had been
only pity last night, but to have her
echo that idea, to make the proper
response to it, to give me gratitude —
that was all wrong. I didn't want
gratitude from her, not at all.

I said gruffly, "Save that for your
breakfast, which is now being served."

"I have enough thanks," she said,
"for everything." There were tears
in her eyes and I looked away, giving
her hand a hurried pat.

She seemed to sense the discomfort
I was feeling, and she jumped up.
"You live in luxury," she said. "Some-
thing tells me it even runs to hot
water in the morning."

CO far," I told her, and she disap-
^ peared with a gay smile. Listening
to the water running in the tub, I had
a funny dreamlike sensation. What if
all mornings were like this, waking up
to feel her hand on my arm, see her
smile, hear her bath water running
in my tub? But I put the thought
roughly out of my mind. "This is the
zero hour," I told myself. "This is
when men weaken, and get caught in
things."

I heard her come out of the bath-
room and open the door of the ward-
robe. I called, "None of that. Get
back into bed. Here comes break-
fast."

I sat beside her while she ate, and
when she had finished all the bacon
and eggs, I fed her bits of toast and

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AUGUST, 1941

John Barrymore is
amazed at what he
sees in his own
family album, as he
shows it to Hedda
Hopper, who is
gathering material
for her dramatiza-
tion of the "Great
Profile's" career on
her Hedda Hopper's
Hollywood program
on the CBS network

marmalade. The sunlight seemed
brighter than any I had seen in Eng-
land, streaming over the bed, lighting
her ash blonde hair with subtle glint-
ing hints of gold. Only the lavender
shadows beneath her eyes and the
fragile outlines of the weary little
body under the covers, kept last
night's horror real.

The phone broke the silence with
one of those rare calls that come
through the almost completely non-
existent connections. It was to change
the place of an appointment I had
with a man in the Foreign Office. I
looked at my watch. It was already
one. Suddenly the luncheon that had
seemed so important when I made the
date seemed insignificant. I didn't
want to leave Judy. Not ever. But I
shook the thought away.

When I went back to the other room,
she was sitting on the edge of the
bed, tiny in her white silk slip, her
thin little bare ankles and feet look-
ing incredibly unprotected, touching.

"Don't be a dope," I told her rough-
ly. "You're staying here. I tried to
get a real nurse to sub for me, but my
Anna out there was insulted when she
heard me phone. She says she's raised
six of her own through everything six
kids can have, so she's not afraid to
tackle you."

ANNA was right there behind me
now, her broad rosy face beam-
ing. She too had lost her rigid English
sense of what was proper. Only
sympathy was in her kindly smile as
she went to tuck Judy back in bed.
Judy settled down with a sigh. I left
her with a wonderful sense of joy. She
had been glad to stay with me.

Getting from one place to another
in London is an enormous job, re-
quiring time. And in the days that
followed I made only the most neces-
sary trips and left out many that I
should have made. I trusted Anna —
I had to, during the times of my
broadcasts — but I couldn't get home
fast enough.

Sometimes, at first, I thought I just
got there in time. Anna was good
and kind, but it was to me that Judy
turned when the bombs came down
and the gun roared. She needed me.
I tried to worry about that, but I
couldn't. I was glad. Wildly, ex-

altedly glad. My foolish little nagging
reservations grew weaker and weaker.

And there came a night when I
hadn't any at all, any more.

It was after ten, high time for me to
go to my broadcast, but I couldn't
seem to get around to saying good-
bye. Anna had gone, for nowadays
Judy insisted that she leave before
the blackout. She said she didn't
need anyone till I got home, and I be-
lieved her. She was obviously better.
Her eyes never went blank, even in
the worst alarm, and I never saw those
frightening shadows in them that told
me she had gone far away from me in
memory. But though she was better
she did not talk now of leaving. She
seemed content just to live each day,
with me. Really content, sometimes
I almost thought she was happy. When
I think it could have gone on that
way, with happiness ahead for both of
us — -

But that night I paid for the cow-
ardly caution that had held me back
before. I sat beside her on the bed,
saying goodbye, or trying to, before
I left for the studio.

"I find it hard to leave you tonight,"
I said. I held her hand close in mine
instead of releasing it and laying it on
the covers where it belonged.

Her breath caught a little, as she
said what she always said. "But you'll
be back — " She said it with the sweet
confidence she put into it every night.

"Yes. I'll be back." And when I
said the words they suddenly sprang
into meaning, charged with promise,
possibilities that made my breath
come wildly fast, the blood pound in
my ears. And then she was in my
arms and I was kissing her as I had
not kissed her on that first night. This
embrace did not grow slowly from the
deep aching need to protect her. It
lacked that sweet, right inevitability
it would have had on that first night
when she needed me. No, it was my
own need, my own frustrated desire
catching up with me.

Yet she did not resist. She lay pas-
sive in my arms while I kissed her
cheeks, her ears, her forehead, her
eyes, her throat — and finally with
hunger that already possessed — her
lips.

In actual time it must have been
no more than a minute or two. The

striking of the clock woke me,
brought me back to my other urgency.
I had to get to my broadcast. I shook
my head, dazed. "I have to go," I
whispered. "I don't see how I can,
the way I want you. But I'll be
back."

This time those words carried their
new meaning. But not all of it. They
told her too much — and not enough.
They told her that I wanted her but
they did not tell her that I wanted her
all my life, forever.

Queer that it did not seem signifi-
cant to me then that it was I who
said her words this time, and she did
not repeat them after me.

And so, when I came home, I was
utterly unprepared. I looked through
the apartment for her as if she had
been some tiny object that I'd mislaid
and might find underneath a book-
case, in a dark corner. At first I even
told myself that she was playing a
joke on me, hiding. But after a while
it was no use. She was gone.

There wasn't any note. I looked
half-heartedly for one in the morn-
ing, but I knew it would not be there.
It was only kidding myself again to
say that she could give me any other
explanation but the one that burned
in me. No note was necessary to tell
me why she'd gone.

CHE had not been able to pay the
*■* price that unaccountably, sudden-
ly, I was exacting from her. Perhaps
she had tried to. Perhaps those hours
I spent in the studio were hours of
agonizing indecision for her. Even
though it had all turned out so hor-
ribly different from the way it had
seemed to her, she may have thought,
she still owed me a debt. And if I
wanted it paid that way, she ought to
pay it, maybe she told herself, sick
with misery. But in the end she
couldn't. It had been too beautiful
before, even though it was an illusion
with no truth behind it. She couldn't
face me, knowing this new thing
about the man she had trusted — even
loved, perhaps, as I loved her.

So I must face the truth. She had
gone, had left me just as I at last
succeeded in knowing all that she
meant to me. She was not on the
street when I rushed back down the
creaking stairway. She was nowhere
in the neighborhood though I searched
all that night through the fiery glare
of bombs that were setting house after
house aflame.

Judy had gone, but all the time that
I searched I couldn't believe that she
was far away. I was utterly sure
that soon I would find her and she
would be in my arms. Since that day
I have never slackened my search. I
mustn't waste any moment I can
spare from my broadcasting. We must
be together again as soon as possible.

Of course I shall find her. I am
writing to every Warren in every di-
rectory I can find. The Post Office
still performs miracles. I have gone
to every Air Raid Protection station
in the city, for surely she must have
her duty somewhere. I am now track-
ing down every man and woman I
can find who ever was an interior
decorator and one of these days I
must find someone who knew her or
a friend of her family's name or some
other tiny clue.

When I find her, I shall make her
understand. She shall understand my
words that night which drove her
from me. She shall know the truth
and because she will still be Judy, I
know that it will be all right.

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AUGUST, 1941*

The Merry Morgan Man

his outraged father that he was leav-
ing his alma mater, (Cornell), after
two years, for the simple reason that
study made him nervous and bitters
made him even more nervous and
therefore he must seek a career other
than the family industry. So young
Mr. Wupperman left college and set
out on his own.

For puzzled New York housewives
who come away from a Morgan movie
haunted with gnawing suspicions
about the actor, we clear up the mat-
ter once and for all — you are right, he
was your Fuller brush man, the one
whose pigeon-toed foot in the door-
way sought space in which to wave
frantically his free sample.

For certain merchants in Boston,
for whom an amazing young male
once endeavored to sell advertising,
and for New Englanders who still talk
of the winter of 1909 and the gol-
blamed upstart who tried to sell them
alfalfa farms on Long Island, we veri-
fy your suspicions. It was Morgan.

To old cowhands round and about
Las Vegas, Nevada, who wonder oc-
casionally whatever became of that
dude cow-puncher who came west to
ride the range and, incidentally, re-
mained to outride his numbness, we
offer this information: he became a
comic, in motion pictures and on the
radio.

TO harassed freight train brakemen
■ who shoved a young bum from the
rods, and to New Orleans restaurant
keepers who shoved a bigger bum
kitchenward to wash dishes for un-
paid meals, we can only say — Morgan
is the guilty man.

No cyclone on its mission of ill will
ever created a greater national dis-
turbance than our wandering hero,
and no actor has a greater nuisance
value to work off than Frank Morgan.
Let him deny it.

Back in New York, his wanderings
behind him, young Wupperman came
face to face with an event that
changed the entire course of his life.
His older brother Ralph, after gradu-
ating from Columbia, had given up his
notion of practicing Law to become an
actor, substituting the name Morgan
for Wupperman.

Frank, seeing merit in the step, de-
cided to follow Ralph's move. Catch-
ing his father at a time when he was
still dazed over Ralph's deed (there
having been no actors in the imposing
Wupperman history) , Frank gained
his father's blessing and became an-
other actor named Morgan. He
climbed from vaudeville to stock com-
panies and, as the odor of his efforts
grew less offensive, his parts grew
meatier until one day our Thespian
found himself in the Broadway cast
of "Mr. Wu." And he did mean "Wu,"
tearing the drama apart tooth and
nail. Later, in "Topaz," he became one
of the outstanding dramatic actors of
the stage.

And then he met a blonde — and love
and pain and the frustration that was
to color his future life as a comic, fol-
lowed.

Today Mr. Morgan chuckles over
some of the head-lined, so-called ro-
mances of these movie stars, for Mr.
Morgan's own love affair was a cross
between the burning of Atlanta and
i Junior-Senior egg throw. For actor

(Continued from page 29)

Morgan (and he was a handsome one
let me tell you) had fallen hook, line
and sinker for the beauteous deb,
Alma Muller, whose social family
scorned the attentions of an actor. Let
him go back to bitters, they protested,
and they'd think it over. But Frank
wouldn't go. Life was bitter enough
without the Angostura so, on the eve
of the day that Alma's family were
sending her abroad to forget, Frank
sneaked her off and married her.

She sailed away with the secret in
her heart. And then came WAR, the
old one, and Miss Muller was trapped
in Germany. Months later she cabled
him of her return. They met in a
hotel lobby, the bride reducing her
unkissed groom to a pulp by telling
him she would never live with him
and cause her family so much grief.
But Frank was one for finding out
things, and somehow he knew, after
one round of Central Park together,
his bride still loved him, so the Mor-
gan frontier became the Muller estate
up the Hudson, where he sat, Sunday
after Sunday, surrounded by disap-
proving Mullers, staring at his un-
claimed bride.

It was then the frustration set in.

Some months later,. Mr. Morgan,
glassy-eyed with despair, took a des-
perate chance. He inserted in the
society pages a notice of their wed-
ding the year previous and then dug
in. He hadn't long to wait for the ex-
plosion. Newspaper headlines carried
Alma's story, Frank's story, Muller's
story, and several Lamb's Club ver-
sions. All hell popped loose, with
sides formed in every home in town.

He got out of town and three weeks
later was quietly joined by his wife.
She's been with him ever since, a
beautiful gracious lady and a charm-
ing homemaker.

There is no one who by nature is so
capacitated to enjoy life as Mr. Mor-
gan. Half his success as a radio actor
lies in the fact Frank enjoys himself
thoroughly, and is thoroughly amused
at the character he portrays — that of
a gentleman liar. He reads self amuse-
ment into every line and word and is
less upset by set backs than any actor
in the business.

COR example, during a recent broad-
1 cast to the East, Frank grew hilari-
ous at a certain word and laughed so
long, he threw the rest of the cast,
who love him, into equally laughing
hysterics. They had to eliminate quite
a few minutes of the show's ending.

Most actors would have groaned in
misery. But not Morgan. At the eight
o'clock broadcast, Mr. Morgan was
reading along nobly when suddenly he
said — "There's that word again," and
the cast was off in another outburst.

The producer of the show, Mann
Holliner, aged ten years before our
very eyes while the public pronounced
it to be the funniest broadcast to
date.

A round table reading of the script
on a Wednesday night is a far far
better show than any given on air or
screen. The entire script is written
by Phil Rapp, a brilliant young man,
who needs consult no text book for his
difficult technical descriptions. Phil,
who knows a lot of words, and Frank,
who can pronounce them, are a per-
fect team — in more ways than one.

Along about Tuesday morning the
producer begins his weekly nervous
breakdown when, upon telephoning
Frank's home to remind him it's going
onto Wednesday, he discovers Mr.
Morgan, along with Bill Gargan, had
hopped off to New York very impul-
sively to see a friend they hadn't seen
in years.

Together they'd been sitting in the
Brown Derby, when Bill said, "I won-
der what happened to Joe. You know,
Frank, we haven't seen him in
months."

"Well, let's go right away," Mr.
Morgan suggests, and they're off — on
the midnight plane.

To further the producer's complete
agony about this time, Mr. Rapp tele-
phones in his weekly resignation. He
has no ideas. His mind is a blank.
Some one else will have to write the
show.

Little good it does the producer to
know that every week of his life, rain
or shine, Mr. Morgan by the Grace of
God or something is always there and
Mr. Rapp is ready with a swell script
despite his chronic resignation. Little
good it does when the damage to his
nerve centers has already been done.

HE loves all phases of radio, does
"I've-Done-Everything" Morgan,
as he facetiously calls himself. For in-
stance, if the radio script calls for a
barking dog, Frank will gleefully leap
to the microphone and let out a howl
that would send many a mongrel to
the doghouse with shame. He'll beat
the sound man to the mike everytime
with his own version of an approach-
ing train or a well developed hic-
cough. And the off-stage chuckles
during the Baby Snooks routine are
Frank's own.

Genial, gracious to fans and kindly
always, his only reaction to an un-
kindness is to tighten up and say
nothing. When Mr. Morgan ceases to
talk — he's hurt and hurt deeply.

Despite the ludicrous character he
portrays on the air and screen, lying
in his own teeth or fumbling a line
like a man caught in a verbal revolv-
ing door, Mr. Frank Morgan is a
thorough gentleman, completely
minus coarseness and vulgarity.

He enjoys a good game of golf out
at Lakeside or a tennis match at Palm
Springs or the quiet retreat of his
Mexican ranch or the lapping waters
of the Pacific as he sails in his own
boat. But more than these he en-
joys radio.

They tell the story of the time Mr.
Morgan first appeared on the air. He
became so fascinated with the re-
hearsal rooms, he'd go wandering off
by himself, waving encouragement to
Bing Crosby from some unexpected
doorway or smiling down from the
Sponsor's booth at Rudy Vallee's sur-
prised face.

And then one evening he inadver-
tently came upon a room in use. Amos
and Andy, with millions of listeners
tuned in, were engaged in a broadcast.

"Wait a minute," Andy was saying,
"here come the Kingfish. Well, walk
right in, Kingfish."

And at that exact moment the door
opened, and to the astonishment of
Amos and Andy, there in the door-
way with a smile of bland innocence
on his face stood Frank Morgan.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MTRROB

The Bride's Bouquet

honeymoon. All that made me seem
only a little worse than I really was —
and I was bad enough without it.

By exhibiting my own motives in
their worst possible light to Jimmy, I
had shown them to myself as well.

For the first time, I knew exactly
what it meant to marry for money.
I was no better than a prostitute. I
could not go to Bill, on this our wed-
ding night, offering him a prostitute's
love. He deserved something so much
better than that.

I heard a sound at the French doors
leading to the house, and looked up
to see Bill coming through them. He
was smiling, and I don't think I ever
experienced a sharper pang of regret
than I did at the realization that soon
I would have to shatter that confi-
dence, that happiness.

"Too much excitement for you?" he
asked. "To tell the truth, I feel a little
that way myself. Let's get out of
here."

THAT had been part of our plan.
■ We'd announced that we didn't in-
tend to leave on our honeymoon until
much later in the afternoon, but all
along we'd schemed to steal away un-
noticed while the party was at its
height. Bill's car was parked near a
side entrance of the house, and the
maids had instructions to put our lug-
gage into it as soon as we'd changed
into traveling clothes.

Of course the plan didn't work.
Somebody saw us just as we sprinted
for the car, and immediately we were
surrounded by laughing people, pelted
with showers of rice. We ducked our
heads and Bill started the car up. He
was laughing as merrily as anyone
else. I had never seen him so boyish
and gay. Mother and Dad were beside
the car, and Bill's mother and father.
There were hurried, fragmentary
farewells. Then at last we were rac-
ing down the driveway, waving back
at the cluster of people.

I wanted to scream, "I can't go with
you, Bill! I can't be your wife — I'm
not worthy !" But I couldn't. Not yet.

The car sped through the peaceful
autumn countryside, and the air was
damp and cool on our faces. Bill
turned from the wheel and smiled
just a little — not the broad smile of
amusement, but the small, tender
smile of a man who is deeply content.
"Happy?" he said.

I nodded. It was easier to lie if you
didn't have to use words.

The thought crept into my brain
stealthily: Why tell him? Why hurt
him? Don't be a fool. You can still
be a good wife to him, you can still
make him happy. He needn't ever
know you married him without loving
him.

I sat up straight. No! I was done
with lying. I'd tell him — now, this
minute, before that traitorous impulse
could weaken me.

"Bill," I said, "stop the car, please.
Over on the side of the road some-
where. There's something I've got to
tell you. When you've heard it you —
you may not want to go on this honey-
moon."

He glanced at me and his jaw
dropped a little, but he guided the car
to a clear space and turned off the
motor. We were still on a country
lane where there was little traffic, and
as the engine died there was a warm,

AUGUST, 1941

(Continued from page 35)

open-air kind of silence.

"What could you teU me," Bill
asked, "that would make me not want
to go on a honeymoon with you?" Yet
there was no raillery, no hint of a
refusal to take me seriously, in his
voice. I was thankful for that.

"Only that I set out to marry you
because you were rich," I said. There
was a smudge on the gleaming
chrome of the door -fitting; I rubbed
it clean and shining with my finger,
carefully, meticulously, keeping my
eyes on it so I wouldn't have to watch
Bill. "I thought I could fool you. I
can't, that's all. I've got to tell you."
I waited a minute, hoping he would
say something, but he didn't. "I'm
sorry, and terribly ashamed. But
that's how it is."

Still he didn't answer. The silence
grew heavy, thick, like something you
could feel against your skin. I had to
turn and look at him.

He might almost not have heard me.
I saw his profile, sharp against the
deep wine-red of an oak tree that
grew across the road. It was quite
expressionless, and he was gazing
away, through the windshield, as if
he were watching something on the
far horizon.

He felt me move, and he said, "Why
are you telling me this? Because you
can't face the thought of being my
wife?"

"No!" I cried. "Oh, no! Because I

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couldn't come to you dishonestly. If —
if you still want me, knowing that I
made my mind up to marry you if I
could, the first time I met you — know-
ing that I'm mercenary, scheming —
If you still want me, I'll be proud to
be your wife!"

He looked deep into my eyes.
"Would it surprise you very much,"
he asked, "if I told you I've known all
along you — let's put it this way — you
wouldn't have married me if I hadn't
been rich?"

"You knew?"

"Of course. You gave yourself away
in a hundred little slips, to anyone
that knew how to read them. And
there was your background — poor
Southern family, keeping up appear-
ances, an expensive school, holidays
spent with Jane. . . . The only way
you could have lived all that down
would have been by marrying a poor
man. You didn't, although I think you
had an opportunity to marry one —
Jimmy — if you hadn't kept him at
arm's length. But most of all — well,
I just knew, somehow, that my money
made me more attractive to you."

The blood was pounding, burning
in my face. "How could you have
asked me to marry you?"

"I loved you," he said simply.
"When you love someone, you can see
her faults, but they don't matter
much. So when you agreed to marry
me, although I knew it was on certain
terms, I didn't care. Not then."

Not then. The two words repeated
themselves over and over in my
thoughts until I understood all they
meant.

"But you do care now — is that it?"
I asked.

"Yes. That's your reward for being
honest enough to tell me. A pretty
reward, but you see how it is. The
whole thing's out in the open now,
and I can't very well ignore it. I don't
want you to be my wife unless you
love me."

I bowed my head. "I see," I said.

"The only thing is," Bill said sur-
prisingly, "I think you do love me and
don't know it."

Startled, I turned to meet his quiz-
zical, searching gaze. He went on, be-
fore I could speak:

"Sometimes people change. You
have. You've gotten softer, less sure
of yourself. I watched you while you
were telling me about marrying me
for money, and it was as if the con-
fession was being torn out of you. I
think you've been so sure money was
the only thing you wanted that you
never gave yourself time to examine
your own emotions. That's what I
want you to do now. If you like, I'll
give you a divorce and an assured in-
come of any amount you name. Or
you can be my wife. Whichever
would make you happier."

He spoke quietly, like a man out-
lining an impersonal business prop-
osition. But behind those reasonable,
carefully chosen words, I could hear
a tumult of longing, restrained by a
strength that was almost physical.
Dimly, I understood how desperately
he was hoping for my love, and how
determined he was not to force it.

A SOB broke in my heart, releasing
** all the pent-up tenderness that
had been locked there, forgotten. How
monstrously I had been cheating my-
self! Refusing to recognize love,
denying myself the most precious
thing in the world because for years
I had planned to do without it!

Then I was clinging to Bill, crying,
unable to stop, and he was pressing
me close and smoothing my hair with
a gentle hand and kissing me. After
a while the storm of emotion passed
away, leaving a heavenly happiness
that can't be described — that is only
known by two people who are in love.

That was a year ago. Twelve
months of being Bill's wife have each
added to my thankfulness that I
played out my little drama for Jim-
my's benefit, and thus opened my own
eyes to my true feelings. And things
have turned out well for Jimmy and
Jane, too. They were married a little
while ago and are, Jane writes me,
deliriously happy. I did not go to the
wedding, and I won't see much of
them, ever, because Jimmy believed
all too completely what I told him
that afternoon on the terrace. Some
day, years from now, I'll tell him.
Meanwhile, I don't mind. I am sure
that Jane understands.

A beauty problem seldom
discussed but important
to a woman's daintiness

By DR. GRACE GREGORY

WHAT with play suits and bath-
ing suits becoming more and
more revealing, we have to
make sure that we are beautiful prac-
tically all over before we can really
enjoy vacation days. If you have a
superfluous hair problem (and who
hasn't) now is the time to learn how
to deal with it. Then you can relax
and be unselfconscious — which is a
long way on the road to beauty.

When I met Joan Edwards, the sing-
ing star and pianist of "Girl About
Town," heard on CBS three times a
week, I thought she was the most
vividly alive person I had ever seen,
and perfectly groomed.

Joan has worked hard to make her-
self the musician that she is. Her
father and mother, gifted musicians
also, saw to it that she began studying
piano as soon as she could reach the
keyboard. As a child, she appeared
with Gus Edwards' School Days
Troupe. Then came high school, and
Hunter College with a major in music.
Then she was suddenly up against a
world that had little place for young
girl pianists. Discouraged? No! She
took a fresh start, studying voice.

Just as an example of the demands
of broadcasting, Joan told me about
the time when she was to play her
own accompaniment to one of her most
difficult songs. At the last minute she
discovered that she had caught a
severe cold which would make the
very high notes uncertain. She could
have half crooned, half spoken that
part of the song. But Joan is no
bluffer. On no notice at all she trans-
posed the accompaniment and song
into a lower key.

There's no doubt that this girl has
what it takes.

There are three kinds of unwanted
hair — hair on the limbs, hair under
arms, and hair on the face (including
too much eyebrows) . For hair on the
limbs, try first some of the simple
bleaching rinses. A moderate amount
of blonde hair on arms and legs is
hardly noticeable. But if there is
really too much, then you have your
choice of excellent depilatories.

The old fashioned depilatories used
to be smelly and irritating. Times
have changed. Now there are creams

Listen to charming Joan
Edwards on her own CBS
program, Girl About Town.

with practically no odor but their
perfume, absolutely non-irritant to
the average skin. Find one that suits
you, and your troubles with hair on
limbs or under arms are over.

Of course all these may be used on
the face, after you are quite sure you
have found the one that agrees with
your skin. In addition there is now a
dainty little abrasive which would not
hurt a baby. With this you may rub
off any light or moderate growth of
hair. And for temporary relief from
heavier growths, there are special
little feminine razors.

Another important type of hair re-
mover is a sort of wax. You apply it
warm, then give a sudden jerk and the
unwanted hair is out by the roots.

With all these good methods to
choose from, it is tragic that every
now and then girls worry so over some
light fuzz that they will try quack
remedies, because the quacks promise
the hair will never come back. I have
seen faces hideously scarred by these
quack treatments. If you hear of a
new treatment, be sure you consult
your physician before you try it.

ANOTHER problem of the dog days
/"A is the maintaining of personal
daintiness at all times. It is necessary
to our health that we perspire freely.
Thanks to the excellent deodorants
now available, we may perspire as
much as nature pleases and still not
offend.

Of course the first requisite for per-
sonal daintiness is plenty of baths

Mill!) MIIIRQR

HOMMRIJIY

with good soap. Some soaps are better
than others for this purpose, but in
most cases a deodorant is also neces-
sary. There are two kinds: those
which actually stop the perspiration
and those which remove all odor
without checking the perspiration.
There are creams, dainty and some-
times perfumed, which will not harm
the most delicate garment. There are
liquids, to be applied with a small
sponge, there are impregnated pads of
cotton and there are anti-perspirant
powders.

Most of these deodorants are good
for several days after each application.
Fastidious women select their favor-
ites and use them regularly as
directed, on the principle that it is
better to be safe than sorry.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Facing the Music

(Continued from page 9)

too long. Gosh, when I was only
thirteen days old, my folks had me
on the road.

If the depression hadn't delivered a
knockout blow to most circuses, the
sensational trumpet playing of tall,
thin Harry James might be blaring
forth beneath the Big Top and not in
New York's Hotel Lincoln. He would
wear a scarlet and gold braided uni-
form and have little use for a smartly-
tailored dinner jacket. The dancers
would be a pack of prize pachyderms,
not joyful jitterbugs. There would be
quantities of pink lemonade but few
scotch-and-sodas. And Mrs. Harry
James might be some daring young
gal on the flying trapeze, instead of
brunette Louise Tobin, Benny Good-
man's former vocalist.

k^OST of the circus blood is out of
•v' the brown haired trumpeter's
system. Seven years of swing changed
all that. However, Harry's business
manager still fears that one of these
days his charge will hear a calliope,
and dash to the nearest circus book-
ing office.

fiver since he bade a hesitant fare-
well to the sawdust, Harry has been
tabbed a "comer" in the dance band
world. His tightly-knit 19-piece band,
featuring able vocalist Dick Haymes,
stays at the Lincoln until July and
returns to this spot in October, after
a summer road tour. They can be
heard on the NBC-Red network and
on Columbia records.

Harry was born 25 years ago in
Albany, Georgia, the son of Everett
and Maybell James, two important
cogs in the Mighty Haag Circus. The
father played trumpet and led the
band while Maybell "doubled in
brass." She was the circus prima
donna and star aerialist performer.

"You should have seen mother hang
by her teeth from a top trapeze,"
Harry recalls.

Practically raised in a circus trunk,
Harry remained aloof from other lads
his own age, who gazed enviously at
the little boy who knew the clowns so
intimately. Harry's system of educa-
tion would have also appealed to other
children. He spent only three winter
months in school. The rest of the time
his mother served as teacher.

By the time he was six, the circus
kid had a small role in the Christy
Brothers' show as a contortionist. A
serious mastoid operation curtailed
his acrobatic ambitions and his father
taught him how to play drums. Pretty
soon he could roll off a drum flourish
as his mother flirted with death at

the canvas top. This accomplished,
Harry began to study the cornet.

In those days the land was cluttered
with roving circuses and it was a
lucrative and time-honored profes-
sion. But in 1929 the people were sad
from financial reverses and circuses
began to fold up like their tents. Only
the big Ringling Brothers outfit was
left. The James family returned to
Beaumont, the only city they could
really call home because it was near
the erstwhile Christy winter quarters.

Harry's dad began to teach cornet
and the boy got a job with a dance
band. In 1934 he joined Art Hicks'
band. Singing with Hicks was a
lovely Texan named Louise Tobin.

"It was one of those love at first
sight affairs," says Harry. In six
months they were married before a
sleepy justice of the peace. A few days
later Harry left his new bride to join
Herman Waldman's band. Shortly
after he left to go with Ben Pollack.
He attracted a lot of attention and
finally Benny Goodman sent for him.

Harry thinks he might have made
better strides than other trumpet
players because he wasn't working
under pressure.

"Other chaps I knew had breathed
swing since they could talk. It made
them tense. I came to it casually and
learned to like it."

As Goodman roared to success,
many of his men got bitten by the
band bug. First it was Gene Krupa,
then James, Lionel Hampton, Teddy
Wilson and Vido Musso. Harry or-
ganized his crew in 1939. Recognition
came to them when they recorded
such novelties as "Flight of the Bum-
ble Bee," "Music Makers," and the
Jewish chant, "Eli Eli."

TO make sure his modern treatment
of "Eli Eli" would not offend, Harry
invited a prominent cantor to advise
him. The cantor not only approved
but sang the ancient song over and
over so that the trumpeter could copy
the proper inflections.

As soon as he was sure his band
had made the grade, Harry made his
wife retire. She had been singing
with Goodman and Will Bradley.

In March of this year a baby was
born, Harry Junior. They live in a
rented cottage in New Jersey. Early
this year Harry's mother died. His
father intends to come to New York
where his son will set him up as a
music teacher.

"Then we'll all be together for the
first time," said Harry, "that is, except
for Fay."

SayMMZ'-

CONSTANCE COLLIER — the internationally famous actress who
plays Jessie Atwood in the Kate Hopkins serial over CBS. Con-
stance has been acting ever since she was three years old. Her
parents were both English actors, and she learned to read on a
book of Shakespeare's plays. Now she's 63 and has gained fame
as an actress, a playwright, and author of her own autobiography,
"Harlequinade." She's immensely friendly, knows hundreds of celebri-
ties intimately, and would rather entertain at parties than anything
in the world. She has been married, but her husband died in 1918.
Between Kate Hopkins broadcasts, she is very active in behalf of
Bundles for Britain, which she helps with characteristic enthusiasm.

mmm with

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AUGUST, 1941

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Fay is the trumpeter's half-sister.
An ex-animal trainer, she is now mar-
ried and tours county fairs with a
trained monkey act.

Playing fast pieces is grueling work
but Harry insists the slow tunes are
more difficult.

"A delicate tune requires careiul
reading and a great deal of flexibility.
If you miss on a fast one you can
usually cover up."

As a protection against lip wear
and tear, Harry grew a mustache.
It seems that shaving the upper lip
weakens it.

Harry doesn't think the trumpet has
really been given the opportunity it
deserves in the concert field and one
of these days he's going to try a seri-
ous performance. After that he plans
on retiring to a California ranch.

"Just near enough to Los Angeles,"
he concluded dreamily, "so I can get
to the circus once in a while."

OFF THE RECORD

Some Like It Sweet:

Barry Wood: "Talking to the Wind"
and "The Things I Love" (Victor
27369). Two of the season's loveliest
ballads. Dick Jurgens (Okeh 6144) also
handles the first tune competently while
Gene Krupa (Okeh 6143) soft-pedals
his band for the rendition of the latter
song.

Jimmy Dorsey: "Green Eyes" and
"Maria Elena" (Decca 3698). Another
Dorsey double tabbed for repeated
playings. Bob Eberly's vocal batting
average is still high.

Danny Kaye: "Tschaikowsky" and
"Jenny" (Columbia 36025). Rising
young stage and radio comic turns out
the novelty disk of the month. You'll be
breathless as Danny reels off, in ma-
chine-gun pace, 70 Russian composers'
long-winded names. Both are from
"Lady in the Dark."

Alvino Rey: "Amapola" and "Light
Cavalry" (Bluebird 11108). A feathery

version of this revived hit heightened
by the leader's wizardry on the electric
guitar.

Benny Goodman: "My Sister and I"
and "I'm Not Complaining" (Columbia
36022) . A standout rendition of this ref-
ugee ballad. Clean cut from start to
finish.

Tommy Dorsey: "Let's Get Away
From It All" (Victor 27377). T. D.
thought so well of this sprightly affair
that he gives his all on two sides.

Glenn Miller: "It's Always You" and
"Ida" (Bluebird 11079). Glenn also
plays two new Irving Berlin songs
(Bluebird 11069) "Little Old Church
in England" and "When That Man Is
Dead and Gone."

Horace Heidt: "G'Bye Now" and "Do
You Believe in Fairy Tales?" (Colum-
bia 36026). Entertaining platter topped
by Larry Cotton's strong vocal.

Some Like It Swing:

Will Hudson: "Easy Rocker" and
"Black Velvet" (Decca 3702). This able
arranger exhibits two instrumental
items that have solid beats.

Harry James: "01' Man River" and
"Answer Man" (Columbia 36023).
Clean and fast. Singer Dick Haymes
carries off top honors.

rais Waller: "All That Meat" and
"Buckin' the Dice" (Bluebird 11102).
An amusing rhythmic chore sung and
played by that Harlem hefty.

Bing Crosby-Connie Boswell: "Yes,
Indeed," and "Tea for Two" (Decca
3689). A star-studded duet tosses these
tunes around with reckless abandon.

Gene Krupa: "Wire Brush Stomp"
and "Hamtramck" (Okeh 6106). Forget
the titles and listen to some spirited
drumming. «

(Recommended Albums— Kate Smith
celebrates her 10th air anniversary with
a group of memorable songs for Co-
lumbia. Victor turns out a set made
by NBC's Lower Basin Street Chamber
Music Society. Dinah Shore is vo-
calist.)

What Do You Want to Say?

{Continued from page 3)

sciences, their pasts, etc. Pretty sick-
ening stuff, I call it. — T. L. DeCon,
Pennsawken, N. J.

FIFTH

I hear all sorts of criticisms of
radio. It's too lowbrow. It's too high-
brow. Such and such speakers
shouldn't be allowed to speak. The
children's programs — the daytime
serials, etc.

It seems to me that these very
criticisms prove that radio is just what
it should be — the voice of democracy!
There's something for everybody's
tastes. So vast and varied a range of
programs would be impossible under
a totalitarian government.

We ought to be grateful that radio
still represents the people. — Alberta
J. Ormsby, Hornell, New York.

SIXTH

Until about a year ago I was never
much of a radio fan, and I still do
not like the ordinary run-of-the-mill
programs. But I want to express my
appreciation of the one program that
never disappoints — Dr. I. Q. To me it
is not only a very enjoyable and en-
tertaining half hour, but it lasts from
Monday to Monday. It has both com-
edy and information and every Mon-

day night finds me waiting eagerly
with pencil and paper ready to enjoy
an intelligence test, and even though
I sometimes rate zero I feel I have
spent a profitable evening. — Gladys
E. McArdle, Lebanon, Kansas.

SEVENTH

Radio is bringing us one of the most
unusual programs these Sunday after-
noons— the broadcast between British
refugee children in the United States
and Canada, and their parents left be-
hind in war-torn England. Full of real
human interest, extremely pathetic
and heart-rending, these short con-
versations between families sepa-
rated by the horrors of war, serve to
reveal more than anything the real
fortitude of the British people.

I sit with tears streaming down my
face as a hungry mother cries, "My,
but it's good to hear your voice, dar-
ling!" The gay tones as parents at-
tempt brave little jokes! The good-
natured banter! And all this while
not knowing if they'll ever see their
loved ones again.

It gives us something to think about,
and makes us more determined than
ever to help gallant England all we
can. — Mrs. John J. Allman, Lacka-
wanna, N. Y.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

The Romance
of Helen Trent

(Continued from page 18)

Suddenly she sat back in the car,
not strained now, not anxious, but
with a new, quiet determination writ-
ten on her face.

And yet something had gone from
her too, because in that moment it
had come to her compellingly that she
could never marry Gil Whitney while
Drew needed her so badly. As long
as she remained Drew's one hold on a
world that slipped gradually from his
mind, she must remain as ne wanted
her to remain.

Helen drove straight to Gil's office.
It was late in the afternoon and she
hoped to catch him before he left.

His secretary admitted her at once.
"Mr. Whitney said you were to be
sent in if you came," she explained.

Gil's face lit up when he saw her.

Helen stood for a moment before
him. It seemed to Gil that no woman
had ever been so proud and sensitive
and beautiful. He wanted her then
for his wife as he had never dreamed
of wanting any woman. Then she
collapsed into his arms and became
like a little girl, bewildered and ter-
ribly hurt, wanting the arms of some-
one she trusted around her.

I N that instant, when the tears be-
' gan to come, and deep sobs rocked
Helen, Gil felt angry and protective.
He wanted to strike at whatever had
hurt her. "Helen," he forced himself
to speak calmly. "Tell me what it is.
We can make it right again!"

"It can't be right again! It'll never
be right again, Gil. Oh Gil, I was
so happy."

"I have been happy, too, dearest."

"But Gil, I can't marry you." Helen's
face twisted up into a hopeless, grief-
stricken jumble.

Gil looked at her, and even under
his tan he went white. "Helen! You
don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, yes I do!"

He looked at her again, trying to
read some denial in her face of what
she had said. All he saw was a hope-
lessness and a deep, aching sorrow.
"Come," he said firmly. "Sit here
while we talk. . . . There. Now what
is this all about?"

"Oh, Gil, you should have seen him.
For hours he didn't know me — kept
calling me Miss Anthony and Miss
Turner, and — and everything else. I
talked to him all that time, trying to
make him recognize me. And I
couldn't. He went right on believing
he was back in his office at Sentinel
Studios."

"Didn't he ever — " Gil began.

"Yes," Helen said, quieter now,
more self-possessed. "I was about to
leave. And then he came back quickly
— so quickly it frightened me. Gil, I
tried to tell him — about you and me.
I tried as hard as I could. And every
time I started he interrupted and told
me how much he needed me."

"You didn't tell him?" Gil asked,
and his voice came hollow and lost.

Helen saw suddenly what this
meant to Gil — how it must affect his
sensitive nature. "It wasn't because
I don't love you, Gil. I do, very much.
But don't you see we couldn't be hap-
py with this hanging over me? I
can't give myself to you as I want
to, as long as I know Drew needs me
so badly."

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Gil stood up. All his jealousy of
Drew, all his love for Helen, all his
despair and hope, his fears and long-
ings, swept up inside him into a tight
knot. He walked across to the win-
dow, trying to keep from Helen what
he felt. But when he spoke, his trem-
bling, low-pitched voice betrayed the
depth of his feeling. "Drew Sinclair!
Drew Sinclair!" he said. "The man
will hold onto you, and sap your
strength, live on your will and kind-
ness, until he's sucked you dry. He's
never given you anything, Helen. He's
taken — taken — taken! Every minute
you were together he was like a hu-
man leech. And now — -when we want
to be married — when we love each
other, and must have each other, he
keeps you locked up tight in that
stony, selfish head of his!"

"Gil," Helen protested, awed by the
strength of his anger. "It'll only be
for a little while — until Drew gets
better, and I can tell him, or until — "

MO," he said. "Don't say it. He won't
■ ^ die. He'll live on for years and
years, until we're too old to have
the romance people should have. He
won't die and he won't get well. He's
half a man now and he'll be less a man
as time goes on. I've seen these things
before, and I've talked to doctors
about Drew. He won't get well."

Helen rose wearily, broken. "I'm
sorry, Gil. If I could will things, I'd
will Drew's getting well, freeing me.
But I can't."

At the sight of her tired, discour-
aged droop, the wan face, the clouded
eyes, Gil's anger and resentment left
him at once. "Wait," he said. "I'm
sorry, Helen. Perhaps I shouldn't
have said those things." He made her
sit down again, and he put his arm
around her shoulders and drew her
head down so it rested against his
cheek. Helen sank down, almost hap-
py for a moment in his tender
strength.

"I know it's harder for you than it is
for me," he went on. "Forgive me,
darling. It was only because I love
you so much that I talked like that."

"I knew you'd see it," Helen said,
and in her heart she was quietly
thankful for the warm understanding
he gave her. "And — and I wouldn't
love you so much if you weren't strong
and sure inside yourself." She sat up
suddenly. "I know I'm right. You
see, darling, you need me too, but
you won't break up if we can't be
married right away. And Drew — well
I'm the only thing Drew has left. He
has no strength, and so little will, and
nothing to live for except me."

"Did it ever occur to you," Gil said
half-humorously, "that it might be
wrong to penalize a man because he's
strong enough to take it?"

Helen too was able to smile. Just
being with Gil, talking to him, listen-
ing to his balanced, sane ideas, his fine
understanding, had given her the
strength to continue. "Come," she
said. "I'll drive you home. You can
send someone for your car later."

The sweet California twilight set-
tled in on them as they drove into the
valley. For a long time they drove in
silence before Gil said, "I won't be
able to see you very often, Helen."

Yet even now Helen hadn't fully
grasped the significance of this day.
She was so tired. Drained. Was it
only that morning she had left for
a last visit to Drew, happy in the se-
cure knowledge of Gil's love and
strength? It seemed that a million
years had gone by — that all those
things had happened to another per-
son. She had been confident, con-
tented. Before her stretched the
prospect of long, sunfilled, happy
years with Gil. She had dreamed
and planned about a family of her
own, built castles high in the air,
imagined herself inhabiting a rosy
future.

After she dropped Gil at his home,
there came to her startlingly, appal-
lingly, an insight into what the day
had brought. Now she was alone.
Nobody could fight her battles, share
her life; because that life she had
dedicated to helping Drew get well.
And what if Gil were right? Suppose
Drew never got well! Helen saw her-
self going on, year after year, giving
all her loyalty and help to Drew and
having him spurn her offering and
waste it.

Already her weekends were dedi-
cated to this crusade. Those few pre-
cious hours of freedom must now be
spent in visiting Santa Barbara. How
she hated that familiar road!

And the shop! Was it failing? And
her job? Would she be forced to give
it up?

The next weeks were not easy ones
for Helen. Mr. Anderson wanted
dates again. And Gil was not nearby
the way he had been. Often Helen
wanted to call him, but their brief
moments now were so painful, over-
wrought. Gil came to see her as
much as he could, but it wasn't as it
had been. Their greetings were awk-
ward and stiff, and their times to-
gether became something like delib-
erate torture. They stayed apart
more and more.

I F only, Helen thought, there were
' one small corner of security. But
there wasn't. Even the dress shop
did less business despite all Helen's
efforts.

Then, as though one thing more
were needed to impress upon Helen
the enormity of her undertaking,
Jonathan Hayward, Drew's lawyer,
called one day and asked her to stop
at his office.

Jonathan was an old friend, and
Helen greeted him in his office, later
that afternoon, with affection and un-
derstanding. "It's a pleasure," he
said, "to have to transact business
with anyone who looks as nice as you
do, Helen."

"That's a nice thing to say," Helen
smiled. "There's a touch of the con-
tinental in you, Jonathan."

"No," he said. "Any man would rise

Radio's popular singer of old time songs,

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RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

to it when you come in."

Drew's affairs were hopelessly
muddled. Jonathan went over them
from beginning to end for her, pa-
tiently explaining one set of figures
after another, trying to make his
meaning clear.

"But how can it be?" Helen asked
desperately. "Drew was a rich man."

"Yes," Jonathan said gravely. "He
made a lot of money, Helen, and he
spent it fast too. Of course, three
years ago, when Sentinel crashed, he
lost all he'd accumulated. Then he
got the job of producer, after the re-
organization. He was to have stock
in the company but its earnings since
then haven't justified the payment of
any bonuses to him. All he had was
his big salary. Of course that was
large, but he spent most of it as he
went along."

Helen thought of the huge solitaire
he had given her as an engagement
ring, now lying in her safe deposit
box. "His account with the jeweler,
is that paid?" she asked slowly.

"No," Jonathan admitted. "It's not,
Helen. You're thinking of your ring?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll return it to
them at once. That will clean up one
item."

"I'm afraid that will be necessary,
Helen," Jonathan said ruefully. "I
was trying to get up courage to ask
you about it."

OF course I will," Helen said firm-
ly. "I know Drew would want me
to keep it, but under these circum-
stances— "

"That's a load off my mind," Jona-
than declared. "Now with that item
disposed of — let's see. . . . Yes, we can
pay all outstanding accounts, and
leave Drew with about two thousand
in cash. That's all."

"Two thousand!" Helen echoed.
Her mind flew to the expensive sani-
tarium at Santa Barbara. "Why, that
won't pay his expenses for even three
months."

"I know," Jonathan said. "He'll
have to be taken to a cheaper place —
maybe even to a state institution."

"I won't have it," Helen said swift-
ly. "Does Drew know all this?"

"No, he knows nothing of it."

"Then he mustn't know!" Helen de-
clared. "I can take care of all his bills.
I want to."

Jonathan protested.

Helen was firm. "Have the bills
sent to you, Jonathan, and I'll draw
a check to you every month to cover
them." She insisted and in the end
Jonathan agreed to do as she wished.

"Drew must get well!" Helen said.
"And if he knew the condition of his
finances it would only add one more
burden — and one more burden he
can't stand. He must get well, Jona-
than!" As she said it, Helen remem-
bered her reasons for wanting him to
get well, and for a moment, a shadow
crossed her face.

Jonathan took her to the door then,
and somehow Helen felt that she had
his sympathy and understanding. He
put a big arm around her shoulders
and gave her a brotherly hug.

But it didn't help. Nothing helped.
Mr. Anderson was more insistent
every day. The shop did steadily
worse. Now she had shouldered an
enormous burden of additional ex-
penses. She must keep her studio
job! She must increase the earnings
of the shop! But how?

Helen drove out to Trenthony ner-
vously, going faster than she realized,
so that when the car swung up be-

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tween the rows of boxwoods it came
almost as a shock to her. She ran to
the house and pulled open the door
with the haste born of desperation.

Inside Helen looked about her at
the quiet walls, the comfortable chairs,
the tables covered with the after-
noon's newspapers, magazines, ash-
trays— all the familiar and dear para-
phernalia of living. Suddenly these
things took on a new significance.
Helen realized how much it would
mean to her to lose these things — how
much a part of her life this security
had come to be.

And yet — perhaps she was about to
lose them.

DOWN the road, in his own house,
Gil Whitney moved restlessly from
room to room. His dinner was being
cooked in the kitchen, but even the
aroma of a fine steak failed to awaken
his appetite. In the living room the
pair of vases given to him by Helen
brought memories of her. In the li-
brary, the drapes she had been doubt-
ful about made him think of her. In
the hall, the table, the lighting ar-
rangements, the rug reminded him of
the fun they had had together when
they were so busy with schemes and
plans for decorating.

A sentence of Helen's seemed still
to hang on the air. She had been
saying goodbye one afternoon, just
after he moved in. He tried clumsily
to thank her. "Why, it's no trouble,"
she said. "It's fun — almost like deco-
rating a house of my own."

"A house of my own!'- The words
still echoed. To Gil they had been
sweet and rich with promise. If she
had never said them, he might never
have proposed.

And in her house, Helen thought of
Gil. For a moment she wanted to go
to him. Then she thought of what
he had said — that he couldn't bear to
see her often and not make love to
her — and she resolved to stay away.

But she couldn't stay away from
Mr. Anderson. This time there was
no mistaking the tone of his voice.
"The Screen Actors' Guild is having
a banquet next Thursday," he said.
"Will you go?"

Helen couldn't refuse. "Why, yes,
I'd love to," she said, wishing she
were an actress and could make her
voice properly enthusiastic.

Mr. Anderson came to call for her
Thursday night at Trenthony Ranch.

When she came downstairs, he
was waiting. "Hello, Helen," he said
cordially. "Mighty nice to see you
away from the lot. Charming place
you have here."

"I'm so glad you like it, Mr. Ander-
son," Helen murmured.

"Oh come now, Andy is what my
friends call me."

"All right — Andy," Helen said. She
tried to make it sound friendly.

As they left, Agatha looked doubt-
fully at Helen. Helen gave her a
smile and a reassuring pat. It was
more than she felt. But to her sur-
prise, Mr. Anderson was a perfect
gentleman all evening. Never a ges-
ture or a word was objectionable. She
even got used to the idea of calling
him Andy. She actually had a good
time.

The next day he was on the tele-
phone bright and early. "Wanted to
see how you liked the evening," he
said. "Now that you can look at it in
the cold light of morning."

"Oh I had a fine time," Helen an-
swered truthfully. "I never laughed
so much in my life. Those actors — !"

"Then we can do it again?" he said.

"Of course," Helen answered.

"Promise?"

"Yes."

Still she never grew to like him,
although she went out with him again
the next week. Only his position at
the studio, and the imminent renewal
of her contract induced her to go out
with him at all.

On the weekend Helen went again
to see Drew. This time he knew her
at once when she arrived. "I've been
waiting for you all afternoon, dar-
ling," he said. "Did you have a nice
drive up?"

"Lovely," she answered.

For a few minutes they talked.
Drew seemed to be his old self again.
Helen enjoyed the play of his mind,
the quick flash of intuition, the rich-
ness of him as a person. Then, sud-
denly before her eyes, he disintegrated
into the simple child, playing at being
all the things Drew used to be.

Helen couldn't stand it. She stayed
for a few minutes, trying to bring him
back. Then when Dr. Spear told her
it would probably last for hours, she
left and drove reluctantly back to Los
Angeles. Somehow she couldn't stand
the strain any longer.

That Monday Mr. Anderson called
her as usual. "Can you come into
my office, Mrs. Trent?" he said. "It's
about the renewal of your contract."

In his office he sat behind a big pile
of papers and looked owlishly at
Helen. "You know," he said, "the pol-
icy of the studio is, and has been for
some time, to cut down wherever pos-
sible. In fact your contract was the
subject of an exchange of telegrams
just yesterday, Helen."

"Yes?" Helen said, trying not to
betray her anxiety.

"And frankly, Helen, the directors
feel your contract should not be re-
newed. At least not at the present
figure."

I DON'T think I'd consider less,"
' Helen said. She tried to sound firm
about it.

Mr. Anderson shrugged. "If that's
the way you want it — "

"No," Helen said. "That's not the
way I want it, of course. I've always
been happy here at Monarch, and I'd
like to stay. But there are other
studios in Hollywood, and I think I've
built up a reputation that will get me
in any of them."

He shook his head. "Not today,
Helen. The war has upset the foreign
market so there's no money in any
studio in Hollywood to take on new
people. They're all cutting down."

Helen knew this was true. "Under
what terms will you renew?" she
asked.

"Well," Mr. Anderson got up and
came around to where she was sitting.
"Maybe it won't be necessary to cut
down, Helen. You know I have a good
bit of influence around here. I'm sure
I could — "

He stood just above her, and Helen
was distressingly conscious of his hand
on her shoulder. "But of course, you
know turn about is fair play."

"What do you mean?" Helen de-
manded.

His tone was oily. "Oh just being
nice to me, and going around with
me." He pulled Helen to her feet,
and tried to put his arms around her.
She saw only his fat neck and thick
arms, and the great, bristling eye-
brows.

"Don't," she commanded, trying to
push him away. "Mr. Anderson!

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Please!" She felt foolish and awk-
ward, fighting off a grown man almost
old enough to be her father. The
whole scene had the flavor of a third-
rate melodrama. It was all Helen
could do to keep from laughing hys-
terically. Yet she couldn't stop trying
to push him away, and he kept on
trying to put his huge, lumbering
arms around her. For a moment she
had the feeling that this instant would
be prolonged forever.

Finally Mr. Anderson stepped back.
His heavy face wore a dark frown.
"All right," he breathed. "If that's
the way you want it. . . ."

Helen walked to the door and
opened it quickly. "I'll fulfill my con-
tract," she said. "But I. don't want
the option taken up." That was all
she said.

Out in the sunlight again, walking
across the lot to the wardrobe depart-
ment, where her office was, Helen
began to laugh. At first it was mirth,
then it became heartier until it grew
to a hysterical giggling.

The people she passed looked at her
curiously, wondering if she were an
actress with an attack of tempera-
ment, or just a visitor trying to attract
attention. Luckily, on a movie lot,
strange things are taken for granted.
Helen walked among the people,
laughing and crying, yet no one raised
a hand to help her. Underneath, she
felt already like an outcast.

AND it was true. The following
** week her option was not taken up.
Instead she had a politely worded,
cold note from Mr. Anderson, saying
that for "reasons of economy, and so
forth—"

On her last day Helen went home a
little stunned. Trenthony seemed to
her the loveliest, most desirable place
to live in the whole world, and at the
same time the most unattainable. She
walked up to the door, and had the
odd sensation that she had never
lived here, only dreamed of it, and
hoped. Because now she couldn't hope
to hold it much longer. If only Helen
Trent Inc. —

In the morning she went to the shop
early. Only Verlaine Lafferty was
there before her. If she hadn't felt so
hopeless, Helen would have enjoyed
taking up the shop again. If only she
hadn't hired Herbert Tracy. Herbert
Tracy! "Do you remember him, Ver-
laine?" Helen asked.

"Remember him!" Verlaine said.
"I'd like to settle his hash!"

Helen laughed. Verlaine had greet-
ed her at the door of the shop with
her fine Irish warmth. She conducted
Helen into the tastefully appointed
office as though she had been a mem-
ber of the nobility. As always Helen
was touched by her generosity and
good feeling, and amused at her at-
tempts to improve on the King's Eng-
lish.

"Yes," Helen said. "I still don't
know who was behind that attempt to
wreck the shop. Why would he do it,
Verlaine? Herbert Tracy had nothing
against me. I'm sure someone was
paying him. But who?"

"Search me," Verlaine said. "That
trick of calling up all your best cus-
tomers and dunning them for money!
It's enough to turn a person's stomach.
And that fire! You can't tell me he
didn't start that — or hire someone to
do it for him."

"I think you're right," Helen said.
"But — that's all water under the
bridge, Verlaine. What I've got to do
now is make this shop pay, and make

AUGUST. 1941

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it pay well! My expenses have gone
up so I simply must have the income.
Now, how do we go about it? Have
you any ideas?"

"Indeed I have, Helen dear, and I've
been waiting these last two months
to get a chance to tell 'em to you. If
you hadn't been so busy and bothered,
what with — "

"Yes I know," Helen interrupted
quickly. "But now I've got all the
time in the world to give to the shop.
What's your idea?"

"There's three of 'em, really," Ver-
laine said. "First off, Helen, there's no
one in Hollywood, or California either,
for that matter, who can get the per-
sonality into a dress the way you can.
Now if you'll just sit down at your
drawing board for a solid week, and
stay right there without budging, why
then we'll really have somethin' to
sell."

VOU'RE right!" Helen declared. "I
' always had good ideas, Verlaine."
She began to think of that day last
year when the shop was opened and
her excitement. Then it had been
really a place for her to dispose of
extra costume ideas — the ones the
studio couldn't use — a sort of by-
product of her energy and ability and
imagination. "And I'll have ideas
again," she said. "I'll glue myself to
a drawing board and stay there until
— until I get it again. We'll have a
spring collection that'll be the biggest
thing in Hollywood!"

"That's the stuff, Helen baby!" Ver-
laine almost cheered. Her honest Irish
heart had been upset by Helen's indif-
ference toward the shop, and hurt by
vague foreshadowings of the shop's
failure. "We'll get the collection all
built up, and hold it in reserve, but
first we've got to have about three
new models — real exclusive stuff —
make up only ten of each and let it
be known that Helen Trent, Inc. will
sell no more than ten."

"Why do you want that, Verlaine?"
"Well," Verlaine seemed afraid to
speak at first, then she blurted it out.
"There's been talk, darlin', that you're
not designing dresses any more.
Course I know better, but we got to
get that impression out o' the mind o'
the public."

"You're right," Helen said. Ver-
laine's deep loyalty touched her to
the quick. "I'm going up to my work-
room right now. Don't let anyone
disturb me until one o'clock. I'll give
you three designs by tomorrow night.
It was good to get back in harness.
Studio work was all right, but too
extreme. The gowns for movie hero-
ines were scarcely practical modes
for the ordinary woman. And here,
Helen thought, designing dresses for
an ordinary woman to wear — some-
thing she could use to charm her hus-
band, or delight her fiance — this is
where I belong.

All day she worked away in the
small room with the big drawing
board. For the time — while she
worked — she forgot about everything
else. Drew and his sick mind receded
into the background. Gil became no
more than a shadow —

But Gil had gotten up early that
morning too, because he couldn't
sleep. When he looked in the mirror
there were deep, unaccustomed circles
under his eyes. He ate breakfast
hastily and drove very fast to his
office. Passing Trenthony he forced
himself not to look for signs of Helen.
All the same, the boxwoods along the
road, the ones he had brought so care-

fully from South Carolina, intending
them to be a reminder to Helen of
himself, served now as a reminder
to him of Helen.

All day in his offices he tried to
chain his mind down to briefs and con-
tracts. It was no good. In the mid-
dle of the afternoon he left and took
himself for a long drive, trying to
drive away the fear that beset him —
the simple fear that he would lose
Helen.

He could stand it, he knew that. He
wouldn't take to drink or go chasing
after other women. But he could also
see what a void would be left. After
Paula died, leaving him a widower at
the age of twenty-five — died on their
honeymoon, after three weeks of a
vaulting happiness — he had felt that
no woman could ever again reach his
heart. Then Helen had come to his
office, in trouble.

She had poured out her story for
him then, and he could still hear
every word she spoke. An impostor
had claimed that Helen's child, born
during her first marriage, years ago,
and dying in childbirth, still lived.
That Helen had paid her to keep the
child quiet in a Chicago boarding
house. And he remembered that later,
after he had discovered the fraud and
exposed it, Helen had come to him and
thanked him.

At first he and Helen were only
friends. Then she had seen, woman-
like, the great emptiness in his life
that he didn't know existed. She it
was who had persuaded him to buy
the house down the road from Tren-
thony, and she had offered to help him
fix it up. From that time on she had
grown in his heart slowly and surely
as a rare and beautiful flower will
grow on barren ground and bring it
life and warmth and love.

And now, would he lose her?

CVERY mile he drove brought him
L closer to a decision. Finally, when
he turned the big car down the canyon
where Trenthony lay, the sun was
down, and the new moon barely pene-
trated the big trees. He had made
the decision. He must see Helen.

But Trenthony was dark! Not a
light showed in the many windows.
Gil drove on by, doubtfully, because
he knew that Helen and Agatha some-
times sat in the dark on the big, cov-
ered terrace. Then on an impulse he
turned around and drove up into the
driveway. Above his head the stately
palm tree at the side of the house
rustled and nodded in the light breeze.
He whistled. The house gave back
no answer. Gil started the engine,
and just as he did so, the lights of
a car swung up behind him and came
to a stop.

"Gil!" Helen called wearily. She
stepped out of the car, and in an in-
stant she was in Gil's arms. After
the long hard day it was like coming
home to a safe harbor.

"Darling!" he whispered, holding
her close. Gil felt the coolness of her
cheek after the long drive out from
town, and the tiredness in her that
made her want to cling for a moment.
And in that moment, for Gil, many
things came alive again. The night,
the still stars, the freshly born moon,
the sound of the wind, became deeper,
had meaning and life again.

"Go inside, darling. I'll put your
car away and follow you," he said.

"Thank you dear," Helen said ten-
derly.

Later, when they sat out on the
terrace, close together in the big old-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

fashioned swing that Helen had in-
sisted on having, Gil spoke seriously,
as he had intended to speak.

"I've been thinking about us for
days," he said. "This afternoon I
came to a decision. . . ."

His tenseness forced the words out
quickly and roughened his voice until
its harshness was grating. But Helen
saw the tenderness in his eyes, soften-
ing everything he said.

"I want you to marry me right
away — tonight or tomorrow."

"Gil!" Helen gasped. "We've been
all over this before."

"Yes," he said slowly, "but now it's
different."

"Different?" Helen repeated.

"Darling," Gil said, "you've got to
believe what I'm saying. If I weren't
sure I couldn't tell you. It is Drew's
subconscious mind that is forcing him
to cling to you, to tell you that he
needs you."

"Oh no, Gil," Helen said. "That's
wrong — wrong! I know Drew. It
is only when he is rational that he
wants me with him."

"That's just the point," Gil insisted.
"I know Drew Sinclair too and I know
he desires your happiness as much as
I do. Only he can't make himself set
you free, because his conscience, his
whole moral structure, has been
ruined by his sick mind, by the poi-
sonous workings of his subconscious,
inventing reasons for holding on to
you."

CHE had to answer quickly, in the
J half scornful way that would dis-
guise the hunger in her to let him go
on talking, persuading her against her
judgment.

"That's very fine reasoning, Gil, but
you haven't seen him and heard him —
as I have. You haven't ever really
known Drew, seen what he was like,
respected him for what he was."

Gil wanted to cry out against the
injustice of Drew's hold on Helen.
He wanted to take that bond between
his hands and tear it apart.

"I know that I love you and that
letting Drew cling to you is only doing
him harm," he retorted.

"Gil," Helen said. "I want to be-
lieve you, but I can't. I can't forsake
Drew now, not even to marry you."
She stood up and Gil rose wearily.

"Drew Sinclair doesn't need you,
Helen," he said. "You think of your-
self as his last hope, the straw of
sanity his mind holds to. But that
isn't true. If he didn't have you, he
would have to find the strength with-
in himself. That is the only way he
will ever get better."

Helen's eyes, shimmering in the
moonlight, were bright with tears. "If
you knew how much I want to marry
you — to love you, to be safe — how
wonderful it would be if you were
right. But Gil, when I come to you,
I must be free of Drew's claim on me."

Gil felt battered, as bruised as if the
woman's intuition he was fighting
were a solid wall. Gradually he was
learning that a woman's life is not
like a man's. She accepts the dictates
of her 'own heart and conscience as
immovable things, not subject to rea-
son or logic or any of the sciences.
For an instant, Gil caught himself
wishing there were a higher authority
to appeal to.

"I haven't changed my mind," he
whispered, his lips against her cheek
as though the very tide of his emotion
could sweep away her refusal. "I still
want you to marry me — now."

AUGUST, 1941

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Helen

"It would be wonderful,"
sighed.

"Will be," Gil urged.

"No." Helen shook her head. "You
must give me time, Gil. Time to see,
time to work this out so I can be sure."

"But you've had time. What of
these weeks when I've been longing
to hold you, to have you as my own?"

"I know," Helen said, "Oh Gil, can
you wait a little longer? Until — "
She snatched a date at random from
the future. "Until the end of Janu-
ary?"

Gil's face was dark with protest.
"But this is only the end of Septem-
ber."

"Just four months," Helen pleaded.

"And will you marry me then?"

"I will tell you then," Helen said.

It was little enough, actually. Gil
wondered why he was accepting such
an intangible promise, a gossamer
thread of hope. Four more months
to wait just to learn whether she
would ever be his bride. If only she
would promise now definitely to mar-
ry him at the end of the 'time she set.
Yet he knew without asking that this
was the most she could give him.
Somehow, when he kissed her good-
night, it was more a kiss of farewell.
He wondered if Helen too shared this
feeling of finality.

HELEN plunged blindly into her
work at the shop, as if it could
wipe out the memory of that night
with Gil. The three special gowns de-
signed to prove to the public that
Helen Trent, Inc., still had the benefit
of her imagination and ability were a
big success. Sightseers and visitors to
Hollywood flocked into the shop to
take home a Helen Trent original.

But still Verlaine was not satisfied.
"Visitors are all right," she said. "They
buy, sure, but they're not steady trade.
In a week or a month they'll all be
gone, and nobody else to take their
place. We still need the steadies, like
we used to have, to fall back on when
they're gone."

Helen agreed. The shop had shown
a profit for the past month — a nice
profit, and yet, when Drew's bills
came in from the sanitarium Helen
wasn't able to meet them out of her
income. She had to dig into her sav-
ings to cover the bills and the ex-
penses at Trenthony, too.

October and November were even
worse. The profit fell off a little, de-
spite all the work Verlaine and Helen
and the staff could do. Helen dug
still deeper into her savings, and after
it was over, looking at her bank book,
she knew a moment of panic. She
couldn't stand this constant drain.
But, she thought, the Christmas sea-
son is really just starting. Things
are bound to pick up then.

Christmas came and went. The shop
did pick up, but nothing like Helen's
expectations. On Christmas Eve, after
the rush had abated, she and Verlaine
sat in the littered packing room, look-
ing around at the confusion.

"Well," Verlaine said. "It's all over
now but the returns. The next three
weeks will cost us money." Her frown
deepened into a look of anger. "If I
could just get my hands on that spal-
peen, Herbert Tracy, I'd make his
ears ring!"

In spite of her tiredness and disap-
pointment, Helen had to smile. "I'll
warrant you would, too!" she said.
"While you were at it, I'd say a few
words to him myself."

"It'll take us a few months to get
over the bad reputation that be-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

nighted rascal gave us," Verlaine said.
"But don't you fret, Helen, we will get
over it, with this new spring line."

Helen went home then, determined
not to let business affect her Christ-
mas. When she went in the door, the
house seemed strangely quiet. Helen
wondered at it briefly, called hello to
Agatha, and getting no answer went
upstairs to take off her hat and coat.

When she came down, the hall was
ablaze with lights. She wandered
curiously into the living room, not
knowing what to expect. Then sud-
denly they pounced on her. Agatha,
and Gil dressed in many pillows and
a Santa Claus suit. Gil! He .was here
to share Christmas Eve with her.

Helen's eyes misted over with tears.
Gil saw, and he led her gently to a big
chair. "Poor darling," he said. "We
know how you feel. But tonight let's
all forget everything except that this
is Christmas Eve and we're here to
have a good time."

Helen was not soon to forget that
evening. They all opened presents
until the big pile of tinseled packages
around the tree had been exhausted.
Agatha got a new electric blanket for
her bed. When Helen unwrapped the
mysterious package from Gil, she was
full of wonder. It turned out to be a
pair of marvelous matched figurines
of antique Sevres china, just what she
wanted for the mantel in the living
room. And Gil was not forgotten.
Agatha gave him a set of matched
studs and cuff links, and Helen had
for him a fine cigarette case and
lighter of exquisitely wrought pink
gold. "I wish it could be more," she
whispered.

"There's only one thing more I
want," he said, taking her in his arms
in front of Agatha.

Agatha's old eyes grew dim when
she saw the love between them.

FINALLY, at midnight, when the
' carolers rode by in cars, and the
bells rang the birth of Christ again,
they gathered around the piano. Helen
played and they all sang carols.

When it ended, Agatha insisted that
Gil spend the night in the guest room.
"You can't go home to that lonely
house on Christmas Eve," she said.

In the morning, they all felt
cleansed and refreshed. When Gil
finally left, he reminded Helen of her
promise three months earlier.

"I haven't forgotten," she said,
wishing she could tell him in some
way how desperately she wanted to
say yes right then, how the thought of
Drew tortured and shackled her. Yet
Drew's need for her was as desperate
now as it had ever been.

The New Year's season came and
went; January went on for one week,
for two, for three. Helen and Ver-
laine worked early and late to bring
the shop out of its slump. "We're
almost in clear water," Verlaine said.
"Now that the season for them silly

female ladies to come around and say
'I wonder if I can return this' is gone."

Helen laughed. Verlaine could al-
ways joke her out of black moods.
And in Verlaine, Helen found a per-
son who was always and forever loyal
and sympathetic. She was a friend
of long standing, but every day, in
this close companionship, Helen found
new facets to the rugged, honest Irish-
woman.

Still, in spite of everything they
could do, the upturn failed to come.
The shop did better than when Helen
had first taken hold, but so much
worse than they had a right to ex-
pect.

Once, during that momentous Janu-
ary, Gil came over. He was thinner,
and Helen thought he looked much
older. Her heart went out to him.

CAN'T we forget all this, and just
drive some place and get mar-
ried?" Gil asked desperately. "I make
enough money to take care of every-
thing you feel you've got to do, Helen.
I'd enjoy having Agatha and the ser-
vants with us, and Drew's bills aren't
so high I'd go broke paying them.
We'd still have a comfortable margin."

"Oh Gil, if I only could!"

"If you won't marry me for my looks
and brains, marry me for my money."
Gil said it as a joke, but Helen knew
he more than half meant it.

"I won't," she said softly. "I'd give
anything if I could. . . . But please Gil,
it's been so perfect seeing you again.
Let's not spoil it by having the old
argument all over again. Let me just
be happy. For this month. Then we
can talk again, and I promise I'll make
a decision."

"How is Drew?" Gil asked evenly.

Helen knew it hurt him to bring up
Drew's name. She could see it in the
aloof turn of his head, the feigned
carelessness.

"He's just the same." She tried to
keep her voice even, to match his pre-
tended indifference, but she couldn't.
In an instant she found herself sob-
bing on Gil's sympathetic shoulder.
"Besides," she said through the tears.
"I — I couldn't give you much now.
There's not much left of me — "

"You can give me beauty," Gil said,
"and life. That's all I ask."

"No," Helen said, more quietly. "I
couldn't give you even those, now.
Wait, dear — please."

Gil gave in. He had to in the face
of Helen's determination. And strange-
ly his respect for her grew when he
saw the deep will that made her re-
fuse him — for his own sake as well as
Drew's.

January neared its close. The four
months' grace Helen had asked for
were nearly gone, and she saw each
day fade into the past with a sense
of despair. For nothing had changed.
The dilemma was still unsolved. Her
visits to Drew had not, apparently,
brought about any appreciable im-

ANNE SHIRLEY in "THE DEVIL AND DANIEL WEBSTER"

AN RKO-RADIO PICTURE

ORPHANS OF DIVORCE

When a marriage fails, does the mother belong with her children?
Now read radio's moving serial as a

COMPLETE NOVEL in the next issue of radio mirror

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provement of his condition.

Financially, too, there had been no
improvement. The shop was making
dishearteningly slow gains after the
post-holiday lull, and every studio in
Hollywood turned deaf ears to her
overtures.

On February first, if Drew was
neither better nor worse, she had
promised either to marry Gil or set
him free. Set him free! Those were
such false words. How could she ever
set him free?

THE time had nearly run out when
she received, one morning, a letter
that was like an ironic solution to all
her problems. It was from the execu-
tive vice president of a famous de-
partment store in San Francisco, and
it offered her the post of head de-
signer, at a salary which would enable
her to take care of all her obligations
— pay Drew's fees at the sanitarium,
keep Trenthony and her own shop,
even if the latter did not do better.

Once such an offer would have sent
her spirits soaring. Now she accepted
it simply because she knew nothing
else to do. She would hate the lonely
life in San Francisco. It would be
tremendously difficult to see Drew;
she could come south only once every
two or maybe three weeks.

But in the back of her mind as she
wired her acceptance was the knowl-
edge that here, in a way, was the an-
swer she had promised Gil. It was
not the answer he had wanted and
hoped to have. She was taking herself
out of his life.

Aaron Carter, the vice president
who had written the letter, had asked
her to be in San Francisco on Monday.
This was Saturday morning.

Quickly, before she could weaken
in her determination, Helen picked
up the telephone and called Gil's
office. But he was not there. He had
gone to Palm Springs on business, his
secretary said, but a long distance
call to the hotel where he had ex-
pected to stay brought her no satis-
faction. Apparently he had changed
his plans and was stopping with
friends.

Again and again in the next twenty-
four hours, while she made her hur-
ried preparations to leave, she tried to
locate him without success. In the
end she wrote a letter — not a satis-
factory letter, she felt as she read it
over, for there was so little she could
say in words.

In the train she leaned back against
the clean linen cover of her pullman
seat, exhausted, drained of vitality.
The days marched ahead of her in a
sullen, dark procession.

Gil would read her letter, and know
that he had his answer. Perhaps he
would not even write to her. She
could not blame him if he did not.

In San Francisco she plunged avidly
into her new work. That, at least, she
could count on — the delight of seeing
line and fabric grow under her hands,
the satisfaction of creating things su-
premely lovely. She worked at the
store from eight in the morning until
six in the afternoon; then she took
more work with her to the hoJ;el
where she lived. Late at night she
might walk for an hour along the
misty, steep streets, gathering and
hoarding precious fatigue as a miser
would his gold, so that sleep would
come quickly when she crept to bed.

The first week was nearly over
when she came out of her office to
find Gil Whitney waiting for her.

The sight of him, so unexpected —

and so disarmingly welcome — made
her speechless while he explained that
he had been delayed in returning to
Hollywood, had read her letter and
decided to come up to see her.

But it was not until they had fin-
ished dinner that he spoke of what
was on both their minds.

"I talked to Agatha before I came,"
Gil said. "It isn't too much to say she
gave me the courage to come."

"The courage? . . ."

"Agatha understands you rather
well, Helen. She advised me not to
leave you until you'd set the date for
our wedding. She told me you'd
hated leaving — hated everything you
thought you had to do for Drew."

"That's not true!" Helen said, anger
stirring in her.

"Oh, she said you'd deny it — that
you probably didn't realize, yourself,
how much you hated it."

"But can't you see — can't anyone see
— I'm only doing what I have to do?
Drew — "

"Oh, to blazes with Drew!" he in-
terruped roughly. "You've done
enough for him — more than enough.
You've let him hold you back from
happiness — you've worked and wor-
ried to make money to pay his bills —
you've left your home, gone to a city
where you know no one. And still
you won't see! Agatha was right. You
need someone to protect you from
yourself."

This was a new Gil. A Gil who had
lost his tenderness and understanding.
The fact that she could not deny the
cold justice of what he said did not
keep Helen from being infected with
the virus of his own bitterness. She
thought of Gil and Agatha discussing
her, dissecting her thoughts and emo-
tions, deciding between themselves
that she must be handled like a will-
ful child, and cold fury lodged in her
breast.

"You shouldn't have come, Gil. I
was at fault for asking you to wait
four months. I see that now. I was
hoping that time would arrange
things, and if I was weak and wrong,
I should think you could understand
and not blame me too much. And at
least, when my pitiful little hope
failed, when the time I had asked for
came to an end and still I had the
responsibility of Drew — then I was
strong enough, and decent enough, to
give you your answer by coming up
here. I think you might have spared
us both this — this humiliation."

HE did not speak. She saw his ex-
pression soften, and guessed that
if she would but release the tears that
were so imminent, his pity would re-
turn. He would comfort her, offer to
go on waiting, be sympathetic and
tender. But she had made her deci-
sion; she would not go back on it now.
She stiffened her resentment and
waited until the lines of his face had
grown stern.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Neither of us
can pretend, this time, that you
haven't made your answer plain."

Later, Helen sat alone in her hotel
room, wrapped in a big robe and look-
ing down through the window into
the sparse life of the sleeping city. Gil
was gone now, beyond possibility of
return — gone, leaving only angry
words as a memory of their last meet-
ing.

Dawn was brightening the sky
above the Berkeley hills when at last
she rose and went, shivering, to bed.

It was a week later that she re-
turned to the hotel after work to find

RADIO AND TELEVISION IN/IIHROR

a message waiting for her. A message
to call her own home in Hollywood.
She expected Agatha to answer when
she put the call through. But it was
Gil.

He wasted no time on useless words
about their quarrel; it was, suddenly,
as if they were back on their old
footing of months before, as if they
were very dear friends.

"Helen, I think you'd better come
down. A telegram arrived for you
this afternoon, and Miss Anthony
opened it. It was from Drew."

"From Drew!" The two words were
spoken on a quick indrawn breath.

"Yes. All it said was, 'See you soon
in Hollywood.' And Helen — it wasn't
from the sanitarium. It had been sent
from a small town between Santa
Barbara and Los Angeles."

Helen felt the telephone receiver
heavy in her hand. She said in a
choked voice, "Then he's — -escaped. I
would have known if they'd decided
to release him."

"I'm afraid so. Can you come
down?"

"I'll take the first plane," she said
swiftly. "Meet me at the airport."

WHILE she called the air transport
office for reservations, while she
hurried to pack a bag and catch the
bus to the airport, she could keep the
frightening news from her mind. But
once in the plane she could only sit,
staring out of the window, wondering
where Drew was, what he was doing.
Where would that pitiful, lost mind
of his take him? Into what dangers?

Gil met her at the field, and they
drove to Trenthony. Gil had already
called Dr. Spear at the sanitarium and
learned that Drew had been missing
all day, after an escape that showed
careful, shrewd planning.

"But isn't the sanitarium trying to
find him?" Helen asked distractedly.

"Naturally. But' there isn't much
they can do. Spear wanted to notify
the police, but I managed to persuade
him to wait. He's sure that if Drew
sent you that telegram he'll eventu-
ally get in touch with you."

At Trenthony, there was nothing to
do but settle down to a long, nerve-
racking vigil. Now that their anger
had been submerged in this new and
more important trouble, Gil and Helen
did not speak of what had happened
in San Francisco. A tacit agreement
held them waiting — waiting — waiting
for Drew to make some move.

Midnight came, and no word. Aga-
tha brought in a tray of sandwiches
and some coffee. Helen forced some
food down, but a tight lump in her
throat made it difficult. Gil drank
coffee and paced the floor restlessly.

At three o'clock, when no word had
come, they all went upstairs to try to
sleep, Gil in the spare room. But
sleep was a capricious visitor to Tren-
thony that night. Helen was up at
eight, having breakfast. Gil and Aga-
tha came in shortly after.

The sun was hot for a winter morn-
ing. It gave promise of a long day.
But none of them knew the color of
the sky. They wandered in and out
to the garden, talking, discussing, but
arriving nowhere, their thoughts hing-
ing on the whereabouts and safety of
Drew.

Noon came and went with no res-
pite. By five o'clock Helen felt as
though all her life had been spent at
this age-long weary vigil. Agatha
tried to make them eat. She alone
had recaptured her calm.

In the evening Gil called Dr. Spear

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again. No news. They had men scour-
ing the countryside. The police had
at last been notified. Gil called a
friend in the City Hall and used his
influence to have the search intensi-
fied. Helen's nerves were close to the
breaking point. Gil thought seriously
of calling the doctor to administer a
sedative.

Finally, when the self control even
of Gil was frayed, the phone rang. It
was just midnight. Helen ran to an-
swer. Gil followed and stood close to
her side.

Over the wire came a strange voice
with a heavy Irish brogue. "Is this
Mrs. Trent I've got on the wire?" the
voice asked.

"Yes."

"This is Paddy MacDonald, Mrs.
Trent. I'm the watchman at Sentinel
Studios."

"Yes, Paddy, what is it?"

"Well, I'm thinkin' you'll call me
daft, but the old chief just came in
and I remembered how you told me
once I was to call you if Mr. Sinclair
ever got to actin' funny, and I thought
as how — "

"Oh Paddy, is Mr. Sinclair all right?
Tell me!"

'"Sure, he's all right," Paddy said
reassuringly. "At first I thought he
was drunk. Kept askin' about things
that happened way last year. Then
he got over that and wanted to go to
his office, so I let him go. But what's
going to happen to me, I don't know,
and me with a family of eight to pro-
vide a sustenance for — ■"

"Paddy!" Helen cut in. "Keep him
there, you hear? Don't let him get
away until we come. We're leaving
right away. Will you do that? Do
you understand?"

"Sure I understand, and I'll do it,
but what's going to happen to my
poor starvin' family — "

IN Gil's big car he and Helen drove
' madly across Hollywood. Gil re-
fused to stop for lights or intersections.
Once they almost collided with a truck.
Gil jerked the wheel, they skidded
sickeningly, Helen closed her eyes,
waiting for the crash. It never came.
They went on faster than before. Helen
looked once at the speedometer. It
registered sixty miles an hour. She
looked away again, quickly, putting
her faith in his skill and daring. The
big car rushed on.

At the gates of Sentinel, Paddy
McDonald met them. "He's still in
his office." He pointed with a blunted
old thumb, and they ran on.

To Helen it was familiar ground,
from the days when she worked with
Drew. But to Gil it was new and
strange. He was a man hurrying
across unknown ground to an un-
known experience, and, he felt, an
experience that would change the
whole course of his life. In what direc-
tion the change would take him, he
dared not even guess.

At the door of the office, Helen, in
the lead, stopped, her sharp intake of
breath was like a gasp of pain.

Drew was at his desk, and even at a
glance they could see the havoc that
had been wrought. He sat there mak-
ing idle gestures amongst the papers
on the big desk, picking up and put-
ting down the telephone. He lived in
.•mother world. His fine intellect, the
careful creases of his brain, had all
bi en blotted out. And now he sat
foolish and inept, playing carelessly
with another man's papers.

"Drew!" Helen said.

Drew looked up. His hair hung

low over his forehead, the eyes were
vacant and lustreless. "Eh?" he said,
and it was almost a grunt.

Helen spoke his name weakly and
despairingly, hoping against hope
that the sound of her voice would re-
store him.

To her intense relief it did. Again,
as it had done in the sanitarium, his
expression altered as though a curtain
had been lifted. He knew Helen at
once.

"Why hello," he said. "I was just
going to call you, Helen. And Gil.
Nice to see you again."

They answered weakly, too over-
come at the completeness of the
change in Drew to do more. He went
on talking as though nothing had hap-
pened.

"I came down this afternoon on the
train," he said. "But I wandered
around town for awhile looking at the
sights. It's good to be back. I'd for-
gotten how beautiful Hollywood can
be. It gets lonesome up there in the
mountains."

The pathos of his last words went
straight to Helen's heart. "It's — it's
nice to see you again, Drew," she
said, too stunned yet to be over-
whelmed by the nightmarish quality
of this moment.

"Helen, I'd like to have a word with
you alone, if Gil will excuse me."

Gil looked doubtfully at Helen. She
nodded slightly and he left them. A
nervous chill worse than any physical
coldness shook her.

"Helen," Drew began. "I've been
doing a lot of thinking about us. Oh,
I know that sounds funny. But I do
think, when I'm myself." It seemed
to embarrass him to talk.

Helen nodded, still unable to speak.

"And I've come to a conclusion," he
went on. "It — it may sound harsh to
you, Helen, or egotistical, or selfish. I
don't know, but I've got to tell you."

She wanted to cry out, to make him
stop, but the terrible fascination of
seeing him like this, hearing him
speak as clearly as he ever had, froze
her lips and she waited. For a mo-
ment the only sound was the quick
strained intake of her breath.

"The fact is that I want to break our
engagement."

The words came as a profound
shock.

"Maybe I can tell you like this,"
Drew went on before she could quite
realize what he had said. "You know
how a sick animal wants to get away
by itself to heal? Well, that's the way
I feel. I must be alone and without
ties. I must draw into myself and
concentrate with all my power on
getting well."

"But you said — " Helen stammered.

"Yes, I said I needed you, that you
were the one person in the world who
could help me get well. But I know
better now, Helen. I must be alone.
I must, do you hear?"

\A/HEN had he told her this before,
"" Helen wondered feverishly. For
surely she had heard these words. The
remembrance was like a blow. Gil im-
ploring her to give Drew up, for
Drew's own good. She forced her-
self to look up at Drew. He was
standing, his hands on the desk, lean-
ing towards her.

"You understand, don't you?" he
asked. "You see why I must be on
my own, be by myself?"

Helen caught a trace of the old
arrogance in his voice. She felt like
a person who has labored long and
heartbreakingly toward a goal and

then, on attaining it, finds the real
object is in the opposite direction.
She sat for a long moment in silence
and Drew too was quiet.

When she spoke at last it was to
ask Drew to call in Gil. That was all.
They took Drew to a hospital that
night. He went willingly and toward
the end began to wander off again
into that strange other world. Helen
called the sanitarium and told them
that Drew had been found and was
being taken care of. At last it was
all over.

Helen had never known such ex-
haustion. Driving home beside Gil,
she put her head wearily on his
shoulder, too tired to think, too weary
to move. The ache of her heart had
transmitted itself to every part of
her body until there was nothing but
pain and heaviness.

"Oh Gil," she said, "how blind I
was not to have seen. I should have
known."

"No," Gil said. "You were right,
Helen. All the time you were right.
Don't you understand?"

They had left the town now and
ahead of them was darkness, the same
kind of darkness into which Helen's
mind had plunged. "No, Gil, I don't,"
she replied.

"It's so simple now," Gil said. "Now
that we can see for ourselves. Drew
needed you until this moment, dar-
ling. He had to have you to cling to
while he fought his first battle. Now
that's over. .He's stronger. He knows
that the fight is his own, that no one
can help him but himself any more."

"Oh, I hope so!" Helen prayed fer-
vently.

"I have some hope for him now,''
Gil went on. "I really believe he'll
get well in time. He can stand alone.
Tonight was the first step. You're
free, Helen!"

"Darling!" Helen said. She moved
closer to him and put her arm through
his. Ahead of them the road stretched
straight and white under the moon.
Suddenly Helen found herself think-
ing of the road as a symbol of her
own life, stretching into the future,
straight and definite and sure. She
told Gil.

"We can make it like that," he said.
"It can be a straight line now. No
more detours, but I insist we take
time for side trips."

| ATER that night, when Gil said
*- goodbye, he took Helen in his arms.
They were on the porch at Trenthony
and Helen's head tilted up over his
shoulder so that she saw the moon
and many stars, and the quiet dark
gray of the cool California night,
and around her Gil's arms pressed
tight, promising and promising.

And Gil lowered his head, so that
he saw the dew starved grass, color-
less under the moon, and the sprout-
ing boxwood bushes along the drive.
To him the sweet nearness of Helen,
the soft curves melting against his
body, her arms around his neck, and
her cheek against his, became the
same promise — a promise of love and
beauty and tenderness and a life to-
gether that would mean many years
of happiness.

Helen read her promise in the stars

and moon. Gil read his in the earth.

To both of them it was a promise rich

and abundant for the life they wanted.

The End

For exciting listening, tune in The Romance
of Helen Trent every day at 12:30 P.M. E.D.T.
over the CBS network.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

THE STATION THAT BREAKS THE RULES

THE fact of the matter is — it's the
' strangest broadcasting station in
the United States.

Its name is WQXR, it's located in
New York City and it rates the title
of "strangest in the United States" be-
cause it has systematically smashed
every one of radio's pet rules and still
makes money.

It dictates to sponsors, instead of
letting sponsors dictate to it.

WQXR's boss is John V. L. Hogan,
a middle-aged radio engineer who
never intended to run a commercial
station at all. Since he is running
one, he runs it the way he likes it.

His attitude toward sponsors is
sheer heresy. Hogan contends that
people don't like to have a musical
number interrupted while a sales-
man struts his stuff about the spon-
sor's product.

WQXR has its own ideas about pro-
grams, too. The average radio sta-
tion, in its daily sixteen hours or
so of broadcasting, puts an appalling
hodgepodge of entertainent on the
air. Health talk follows food talk,
sports broadcast elbows children's
hour, swing music jostles symphony,
and the tragedies of Mother McGilli-
cuddy and her family tread hard on
the heels of a comedian's gags. There's
something there for every taste — but
not much for any one taste. WQXR
is different. It believes that it has a
special audience, and it edits its pro-
grams as carefully as any magazine
publisher edits his magazine.

Music takes up about four fifths
of WQXR's time, and about half of

By Edith L. Wear*

that music comes from phonograph
records. Here's more heresy. Sta-
tions don't like to use records, as a
rule, except as fill-ins when the "live"
talent fails to show up. But Hogan
has proved that when recordings are
used intelligently they can be as satis-
fying as the most high-priced "live"
talent. In fact, you can hardly tell
the difference. This may be due to
the fact that WQXR uses a special
method of broadcasting, one that dif-
fers from that of most stations in that
it broadcasts all the sounds the ear
can hear, not just the middle range
of sound.

And people do like the musical pro-
grams WQXR puts on, even if the
music is largely recorded. That was
proved one May a few years ago.
Music Week came along then, and
the station wondered what it could do
to celebrate. It really was quite a
problem, since the WQXR programs
were nearly all musical anyway, so
much so that it was really celebrating
Music Week all the time. Finally
they decided to put on a program of
symphonic music during the break-
fast hour, from eight to nine — just
for that one week, no longer. The
breakfast symphonies are still being
broadcast. Such a flood of apprecia-
tive letters came in that the WQXR
people haven't dared take them off.

There's still another way in which
WQXR differs from ordinary stations
— it's the only one in the country
which prints a monthly program.

People pay ten cents a copy for it —
since Hogan, as has already been
pointed out, doesn't believe in giving
things away. Almost twelve thousand
people subscribe for it.

WQXR really represents the per-
sonality of its owner, John Hogan.
His chief interest was in television
experiments. When he started these
experiments, he wanted to broadcast
sound at the same time, so he applied
for, and got, a broadcaster's license.
Because he himself liked good music,
that was the kind he put on the air
to accompany his television pictures —
and because recordings were cheaper
than hiring musicians, he used record-
ings. As far as Hogan knew, or
cared, he was the sole listener to
his own programs in those first days
of WQXR.

Then people in New York City be-
gan picking up his programs by acci-
dent, and wrote to tell him how much
they enjoyed them. Hogan decided to
cooperate with these unseen listeners
who liked music as well as he did, so
he commenced to broadcast regularly.
Finally, in September, 1936, he de-
cided that the response warranted
commercial broadcasting.

Well, he must have been right.
After about five years of operation
as a commercial venture, WQXR is
unique in a lot of ways. It has the
most loyal audience of any station
in New York City. It has a long list of
sponsors, who are just as loyal as the
listeners. And, most astounding fact of
all, it got those listeners and those
sponsors — by breaking all the rules!

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Forever After

(Continued from page 19)

C!ty_

_8t»t«_

her husband stood at the door bidding
him goodnight she had no idea she
would ever see him again. He lived
in New York between his long and
frequent travels. And her family, her
home, and her work were in Chicago.

However, life was to move swiftly
and somewhat unhappily for Ireene
soon after that. And four years later,
in 1938, she found herself broadcast-
ing from New York, living there with
her mother and her children, and
needing all of her success because,
since her divorce, she was the head of
her family.

One spring afternoon she walked to
the broadcasting studio. The sky was
blue. The air was soft. The flower
woman at the Cathedral had lilacs in
her basket. Dogs pulled friskily at
the end of their leashes. The bus tops
were crowded. Ireene quickened her
step as she hummed a snatch of song.
And then, ahead of her, glistening in
the sunshine, she saw golden, block
letters spelling "Hammer Galleries."

"I'll go in," she thought impulsively,
"and see if Victor Hammer's in town."

It seemed a simple, natural thing to
do. But at the very idea her heart
went into a back flip. "What non-
sense," she scolded herself. "Anyone
would think I was in love with the
man. And he probably doesn't even
remember me.

Resolutely she walked on.

kA OTHER," said young Nancy at
*v' dinner that night, "Peggy Bur-
ton's mother is having a dinner party
next week and she's inviting you."

Ireene hesitated. She had gone out
very little since her divorce.

"Do go, dear," her mother urged, in
turn. "You've been working too hard,
taking your responsibility towards all
of us too seriously. After all, you're
young. You need diversion."

Ireene promised, to please them.

It proved a delightful dinner party
and it led to other things. It led to
Ireene's driving in the country with a
charming gentleman the Sunday fol-
lowing and visiting a friend of his,
Tobe Davis, the stylist.

"Next Thursday," Tobe told them,
"I'm giving a party in town. You
must come!"

Fate is so casual sometimes.

When Ireene arrived at the party
Tobe took her in tow.

She led Ireene towards a gay group.
She tapped a man who stood with his
broad back towards them on the
shoulder. "Turn around," she said
"and meet . . ."

"Victor!" Ireene's cry was joyous.
"Victor Hammer!"

"Ireene!" he said. "Ireene!" And his
eyes were like summer.

"I wanted to call you when I read
you were in New York," he told her,
"but I was afraid that you might not
remember me."

He led her to the buffet table. He
heaped her plate with caviar and cold
squab and salad. "Just the other day
I came across an old French folksong,"
he told her, "that you would love!"

"I went to hear Segovia. He played
a gypsy song." She sounded like a
carefree child.

"If I wasn't sailing this week," he
said, "we could hear Toscanini . . ."

Tobe Davis swept down upon them
in the little corner where he had
manoeuvered their two chairs. "Vic-

tor," she apologized "they're waiting
for you to sing . . ."

"I'll sing gladly," he said. "But first,
Tobe, be an angel and let me have
thirty minutes with Miss Wicker, un-
disturbed. I haven't seen her in years
and I'm sailing for Rome in two days."

Tobe's answer was to open the li-
brary door, step aside for them to
enter, close it after them.

The day following, from one to four,
Ireene and Victor lunched at "Twen-
ty-One." He had a table waiting in
the fashionable bar. He wore a hand-
some new foulard tie. And she was
fifteen minutes late, having stopped
to buy her enchanting black hat.

The next day found them again at
the same table. "I'm going to write
you," he told her, "and if I'm able to
cable an advance address maybe
you'll write me, too."

There was no word of love between
them. But they must have known.
Tobe Davis had known.

Radio programs go in cycles. Let
one manufacturer increase his sales
by a program that appeals to children
and an announcer who urges boys and
girls to grow big and strong eating
a certain cereal or a certain bread and
there's no end to children's programs
— until the trend changes again.

In the summer of 1938 the trend
changed. Kellogg's, who sponsored
"The Singing Lady" made other plans.
Ireene was free until autumn when
she was signed for a sustaining pro-
gram.

RCA cabled her to come to London
and be a guest star on "The Magic
Key." And one day while she was
there she did a television broadcast.

THE telephone was ringing as she
1 came out of the studios. "It's for
you, Miss Wicker," said the girl at
the desk.

Ireene glanced at the clock as she
took the receiver. If she hurried she'd
have time to get those cashmere
sweaters for Nancy before the shops
closed. "Hello," she said quickly.
"Hello . . ."

Then her voice changed, warmed,
quickened — to match his voice.

"It really is you!" he said. "What
grand luck! When you came on the
screen just now I was afraid to be-
lieve my eyes. I flew up from Italy
last night and I'm taking the mid-
night plane to Paris, on my way home.
It's fate we should have this chance to
dine at the Savoy."

"You'll reach home two weeks be-
fore I do," she told him across their
little table. "Which means, I suppose,
that you'll be dashing off again when
I arrive."

He shook his head. "That isn't my
plan," he said. And she knew, just as
surely as if he'd put it into words,
that it depended upon her whether or
not he remained in New York.

They had a beautiful winter, all
bound up with the music they love
. . . Flagstad and Melchior sang "Tris-
tan and Isolde." Segovia arrived for a
short engagement with his guitar.
Toscanini conducted Beethoven's Sev-
enth and sent them out of Carnegie
Hall with tears in their eyes.

Now the love that had lain so quiet-
ly in their hearts for years — waiting —
was declared in a thousand words and
a thousand ways. But they weren't
the greedy, wilful words and ways of

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

those who love for the first time. They
brought their love the rich wisdom of
their experience to enrich it. They
never let the emotion that swung be-
tween them limit the interests and
affections that previously had made
up their lives. When he had to sail
away, in the Hammer's ceaseless
search for the beautiful and the old,
she stood on the end of the wharf
waving goodbye. And he always knew
she was smiling just as she would be
upon his return. He was understand-
ing about her family, the time she
spent with them, her love for them.

For a long time, however, Ireene
wouldn't promise marriage. She told
me about it the other day when I
talked with her in her little flat.

"It seemed important to wait until
we were terribly sure we were right,"
she said. "For neither Victor nor I
has a flippant attitude about marriage
or believe in divorce unless it's com-
pletely unavoidable."

Her dark hair swung softly about
her fine, eager face. Her voice was
soft. Her only ornaments were her
gold wedding ring and the British
emblem, "Dieu et mon droit" stamped
in gold upon it, which she wore
pinned on her pale blue knitted dress.

"It may be forgivable for children
experiencing their first romantic at-
tachment to rush into marriage, con-
fident no one ever knew such grandeur
of feeling before," she went on, "but
when it isn't the first time for you
and you know that what seems to be
friendship and congeniality often is
part of love's mirage — well, I think
you wait until you're very very sure
your friendship and congeniality will
sustain. For there's no happy mar-
riage without them."

I REENE faced practical difficulties at
' this time too. She knew her mother,
her children, and a second husband —
constituting three families — would
find it difficult to live happily under
one roof. It seemed a problem for
which there was no answer, really.
Then things began to simplify them-
selves.

Her son, Charlie, interested in avia-
tion, discovered the school best suited
to his needs was so far away he would
have to board there. Nancy, missed
Charlie at home and Ireene realized
that she was not enough with other
children her own age. Some of her
best friends were going and Nancy
felt that she would like to go too to
Miss Porter's in Connecticut. With
the children away and Ireene busy
most of the day, Ireene's mother pre-
ferred to live back home in the West
and visit in New York.

Therefore, one day just before
Christmas when Victor leaned over
the red and white checked cloth of
their special table at "Twenty-One"
and told Ireene of how he'd like to
build for her the most beautiful little
house in all the world, she listened and
her heart lifted. And when he said,
"Have you any special day on which
you'd like to be married?" she an-
swered, "January eleventh's a happy
day for me, Victor. For that's the day,
'The Singing Lady' first went on the
air."

And so they were married, in Elk-
ton, Maryland . . . with hamburgers
and music for a nickle in the slot for
their wedding breakfast . . . and the
Metropolitan Opera Company playing
and singing their wedding march as
they tuned in on their radio and
headed their car towards home.

AUGUST, 1941

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Young Widder Brown

(Continued from page 31)

as if she couldn't bear to look even
now. Then she gave a little cry and
her eyes shone as she held out her
hand to her husband. For the faint
lines at the temples and at the top
of her forehead were all that re-
mained of the disfiguring scars.

It was a changed woman who sat
in her room the next morning waiting
for the car that would take her home.

"I owe it all to you, Ellen," she said.
And then she smiled shyly. "Perhaps
that's why I can dare to tell you —
what I'm going to tell you. I can't
stand seeing you let all the happi-
ness go out of your life."

"Happiness?" Ellen tried to speak
lightly. "Why, I'm perfectly happy.
What made you think I wasn't?"

"Ellen — when you've been as mis-
erable as I used to be, you learn,
somehow, to see into other people's
thoughts. I've seen into yours- — and
I've seen Dr. Anthony Loring there.
So — " she smiled gently — "don't try
to deny it. Just tell me why you're
holding yourself away from him."

I T was a relief not to pretend any
' longer, such a relief that it became
easy to tell of all her doubts — of the
children, and her flight from Simpson-
ville, and of the misunderstanding she
had let go uncorrected when Anthony
answered her summons to New River
City.

"But Ellen!" Grace chided her.
"Don't you see what you're doing?
You're not really being kind to the
children. Quite aside from your own
happiness, you're doing the worst pos-
sible thing for them. You mustn't
bring them up to feel they own you,
any more than you must ever allow
yourself to think you own them. That
horrible possessive love! Don't let it
stifle you, or them!"

"I've thought of that," Ellen admit-
ted wearily. "But it's not so simple.
I haven't any right to say to my chil-
dren, live with this man, call him your
father, because I have chosen him for
you. They're sensitive. They might
try to do as I said, but the resentment
would always be there, and the
jealousy — hurting them, changing

them in ways no mother wants her
children changed."

"You can't shield your children
from jealousy, Ellen," Grace said.
"Any more than you can shield them
from so many other things in life.
Everybody in the world has his share
of it, no matter how much most of us
deny it. Janey and Mark will have
many bad moments. But they'll get
over them. Children adjust readily
enough, if they're fine at heart, and
I'm sure your children must be. Only
if you allow Anthony to go out of your
life you'll really be doing them a
wrong you can never right again. For
it will make an unhappy woman of
you, Ellen Brown, and I know what
unhappiness can do. Not only to
yourself but to everyone your life
touches. . . ."

It was her suddenly hushed tone,
more than her words, that opened the
closed doors of Ellen's thoughts.
"You're right," she whispered. "I
know you're right, I've known it all
along. But I've been too much of a
coward to face the truth. Rather
than work things out, no matter how
much trouble it was, I've preferred to
let them slide. I'll talk to Anthony —
and to the children too."

Grace smiled. "I don't think it will
be necessary for you to talk very
much to Anthony. I talked to him
myself, a few minutes before you
came this morning. I guessed how
hard it must have been for you to call
him, ask him to operate on me — and I
think I made him understand."

"Yes," said Anthony's voice from
the doorway behind Ellen. "Yes, Mrs.
Gaines, you made me understand what
I was too stupid to understand by
myself."

This was Anthony again, the An-
thony she loved, holding out his hand
toward her as if in it he held the
promise of all the beauty and all the
glory in the world.

The End

For further exciting experiences of
Ellen Brown and Dr. Anthony Loring,
tune in Young Widder Brown every
weekday on NBC's Red network.

What's New from Coast to Coast

(Continued from page 7)

an exclusive apartment hotel, he is
soloist in church every Sunday, and
he sings every morning on still an-
other Pittsburgh radio station.

Jerry was born in Francisco, Indi-
ana, thirty years ago. His mother al-
ways wanted to be a gospel singer
herself, but circumstances had kept
her from achieving her ambition so
she transferred it to her children. It
was Jerry who made her dreams come
true.

When Jerry graduated from high
school in Francisco, he planned to
take up journalism; but one day he
attended a camp meeting at Olivet
College in Illinois. There he met three
boys who were students at the col-
lege, and with them he formed a
quartet. The president of Olivet
College heard them sing together, was
interested, and persuaded Jerry to
enter the university. He spent three

years there, majoring in English
Literature.

Soon after he left college in 1931 he
joined a traveling Evangelistic Party,
and went with it all over the country
until 1936, when he joined the staff
of WHJB in Greensburg, Pa., a sister
station of KQV. He graduated to KQV
in 1938, and in the three years he has
been with the station has sung almost
a thousand hymns.

Jerry is married and has one child,
Patricia Lee, aged ten months.
* * #

Carrying a bag of bread crumbs,
Basil Ruysdael, the Hit Parade an-
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with the pigeons in front of St. Pat-
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In August, Parks Johnson and Wally
Butterworth will begin doing their
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once on CBS and once on NBC.

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Superman in Radio

{Continued from page 40)

drained of color.

Superman, racing far ahead of the
car, searched frantically for the one
small place in the track where the
piece of steel rail had been removed.
Suddenly, he stopped short and
dropped quickly to his knees —

"Here's the break. Great Scott!
Kelly wasn't lying — a ten foot length
of track has been torn up! Unless I
can find it and get it back into place
that roller coaster car will go smash-
ing through the steel framework and
down to the ground a hundred feet
below! But where can the missing
track be?"

Then, his keen ears caught the
sound of a far-off rumble which
rapidly grew louder and louder.

"The car! It's coming! I've only
got a few seconds! Where could Kelly
have put it?"

Superman's x-ray eyes searched the
entire section of track with lightning
speed. In another second:

"Hold on — what's that wedged un-
der the ties? Thank heavens It's the
missing piece of track!"

He stooped and pulled with all his
amazing, superhuman strength. One
more jerk, and it was out!

THERE — now to set it into place.
' Look at that car bearing down on
me. And the bolts are missing. The
car will hit this broken piece and
jump the track. There's nothing else
to do. I'll have to get down under the
track and hold it steady with my
hands. But one slip and everything's
lost. Down low now — steady —
STEADY— Here she comes!"

Balanced with the sure-footedness
of a cat, arms outstretched high up as
he held the ten feet of steel in his
hands, Superman waited. Speed ever
increasing, the car roared down on
him. He could see the drawn, fear-
whitened face of Nancy Bardett. He
could feel the shaking vibrations of
the track. But he didn't move a frac-
tion of an inch. The front wheels of
the car passed over the split, onto the
piece held from hurtling into space
only by Superman! But his strength
was equal to the demands made upon
it. The car and its occupant rolled
as easily and smoothly as if they had
been riding upon girder-supported
tracks!

As the car glided to a stop at the end
of the ride and Nancy Bardett stepped
out, flushed and happy, Clark Kent
was waiting for her.

"Miss Bardett, I discovered that
Martin had a piece of the Sky Chaser
track removed. I was able to replace
it temporarily but you'd better close
up the coaster for the night. Mean-
while, I've sent the police over to see
our friend Midway. I don't think he'll
bother you after this. And I'll guar-
antee that now Happyland will have
the best opening you ever dreamed
of!"

Modestly he joined Nancy and Lois
in the celebration.. No one knew that
once again, Superman had brought
happiness where there might have
been only sorrow!

Another and more thrilling episode
of Superman in Radio is in store for
you next month. Once again this
strange hero, with his unbelievable
powers, thwarts criminal intentions.

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Separate Medications in-
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NEW ^uS&i-^t

DrSchollsZinopads

AUGUST, 1941

• Now, at home, you can quickly and easily tint telltale
streaks of gray to natural-appearing shades — from lightest
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does it — -or your money back. Used for 2S years by thou-
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Retain your youthful charm. Get BROWNATONE today.

SUMMER SIREN

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HAVING A BABY?

Regular medical care during
pregnancy is vitally important.
Your doctor can regulate diet to
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teeth and sound physical
development in the baby.
Ask his advice on feed- V
ing infant.

t* ^v*"* St* Your

S^ Doctor Rtfruhrly

THERE are many kinds of love, but
few that end in marriage that con-
tinues thrillingly through all the
days and years. Edward G. Robinson
has been in love with the same
woman for twelve years. Ten years
ago Gladys Robinson knelt beside him
and became his wife. Life since then
has been for them an exalted sym-
phony, rich and melodious. They have
known poverty and riches and the
golden gift of a son.

Their home is an estate in Beverly
Hills, with quiet beauty in every
room — in the library, in the music
room where a grand piano waits to
be touched into melody, in the bed-
rooms where color breathes intimacy
and warmth into the furnishings.

Their playground is a ranch atop
Lookout Mountain where Gladys can
learn to shoot with accuracy on the
rifle range that was just installed,
where the whole family spends hours
at the ping-pong table sharing vic-
tories and defeats, where the father
starts out on a walk with his seven-
year-old Manny, and talks to him as
most lathers only dream of talking
to their sons.

Ten years — filled with success, of
one film after another that add to an
actor's triumphs, of Big Town, a radio
broadcast that began as an experi-
ment on CBS four years ago and is
now almost a network institution.

Edward G. Robinson is a father oi
medium height and medium weight
and medium age, who teaches his son
to throw a curve ball and to know
Richard Wagner's works when a
symphony orchestra is on the air. He
is a husband who speaks French and
German and some Italian and Span-
ish, who went to school in New York
City and graduated from Columbia
University, who might have been a
lawyer, and who was a sailor in the
Navy when war came in 1917 and
who made his first movie fourteen
years ago. He is a human being who
reads Anatole France, George Bernard
Shaw, who needs a lot of sleep, eats
a lot of fruit, and likes to play poker,
hates to write letters, loves prize
fights, football games and tennis.

Edward G. Robinson is a citizen
who hopes his son will be either a
lawyer or a doctor because he can
help others most in those professions,
who would rather right a wrong than
boast any other accomplishment, who
says to other parents: don't be pos-
sessive; don't think that money is
needed to raise your children success-
fully; make music fun — it will be an
invaluable gift to your sons and daugh-
ters; don't worry if they don't go to
college — they will be just as happy.

He is a man who knows happiness
because above all else he has wanted
to make others happy first.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

RADIO MIRROR READERS GIVEN

LARCEMENT

Just to Get Acquaint-
ed We Will Beautifully
Enlarge Your Favorite
Snapshot, Photo, Kodak
Picture, Print or Nega-
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Over one million men and women
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and pictures for enlarging. Thousands
write us how much they also enjoy
their remarkably true-to-life, natural
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them in handsome black and gold or
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You are now given a wonderful oppor-
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photo or kodak picture (print or negative)
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color of hair and eyes for prompt information on a second enlarge-
ment beautifully hand tinted in natural, lifelike oil colors and
placed in a handsome free frame to set on the piano, table or
dresser. Your original is returned with your enlargement ( 10c for
return mailing appreciated). This free enlargement offer is our
way of getting acquainted and letting you know the quality of our
work. Just send the coupon with your favorite snapshot, print or
negative right away, as this free enlargement offer is limited. Write
DEAN STUDIOS, Dept. 557, 118 No. 15th, Omaha, Nebr.

Enclose this coupon with your favorite snapshot, picture,
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Omaha, Nebr.

5*!*

Name

Address

I
Color of Hair |

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City

Stato

9 Actual color photograph of tobacco hanging inside curing barn— Ray Qglesby inspects a
leaf of fine, light tobacco, before aging.

\ \

UKKT
STOKE

•\ts to*sted

GARtTTES

' — to get lighter, milder leaf like this!" says Ray
Oglesby, tobacco auctioneer of Winterville, N. C.

LISTEN to the bidding at 'most any tobacco auction
* — and you'll see right fast that Luckies pay
higher prices to get the finer, lighter leaf. Like any
smoker, that's the tobacco I want — so naturally, I
choose Luckies for my own enjoyment!"

Yes, Luckies pay higher prices to get the finer,
the lighter, the naturally milder tobaccos. No wonder
that with independent tobacco experts — auctioneers,
buyers and warehousemen — Luckies are the 2 to 1
favorite over all other brands combined. So smoke
the smoke tobacco experts smoke. Next time, ask
for Lucky Strike!

WITH MEN WHO KNOW TOBACCO
BEST- IT'S LUCKIES 2 TO 1

MIDTELEVISIOIl

SEPTEMBER

PEGGY YOUNG

Lovely Star of

PEPPER YOUNG'S FAMILY

(Played by Betty Wragge)

A Com
Radio Novel

HANS OF DIVORCE
PEPPER YOUNG'S FAMILY- SSXSiSSSSA

I] Clare Potter is a great
American designer. And
she looks the part. Note
her distinctive pill-box
hair-do, sloping shirt-
waist. She excels in de-
signs that suit the needs
of American living —
sportswear, street suits,
simple dinner clothes. For
inspiration, she turns to
fabrics . . . has prints and
colors made to order.

'**) Unlike most designers,
Clare Potter works on a
living model . . . cuts her
original pattern out of the
fabric itself. At right, she
rests . . . smokes a Camel . . .
critically eyes pyjamas-to-
be, as an assistant pins and
measures. Says Clare
Potter: "I like Camels best.
They're milder— -they con-
tain less nicotine in the
smoke, you know!"

The smoke of slower-burning
Camels contains

2Z%

LESS
NICOTINE

than the average of the 4 other

largest-selling brands tested —

less than any of them — according

to independent scientific tests

of the smoke itself.

77te ccfaae/te tf

AMERICAN
DESIGNER.

"Camels give me what I want in

a cigarette . . . real smoking

mildness plus fine taste"

% "Persian Bouquet" -~ striking dinner -at-
home pyjamas of printed sharkskin, a Clare
Potter original. Here the finished design is
being modeled for her approval while she en-
joys another Camel. "I never tire of smoking
Camels," she says. "They're the finest-tasting
cigarette I could ever want."

Clare Potter is outstanding among designers
who are making America the center of fashion.
A hard worker, she spends week-days at the
shop ... week-ends at her farm. "My friends
prefer Camel cigarettes, too," she adds. "So I
buy Camels by the carton. More convenient!"

R. J. Reynolds Tob. Co., Winston-Salem, N. C.

A few of the many other

distinguished women who

prefer Camel cigarettes:

Mrs. Nicholas Biddle, Philadelphia

Mrs. Gail Borden, Chicago

Mrs. Powell Cabot, Boston

Mrs. Charles Carroll, Jr., Maryland

Mrs. Randolph Carter, Virginia

Mrs. J. Gardner Coolidge 2nd,

Boston

Mrs. Anthony J. Drexel 3rd,

Philadelphia

Mrs. John Hylan Heminway,

New York

Mrs. Alexander Hixon, California

Mrs. Oliver DeGray Vanderbilt III,

Cincinnati

Mrs. Kiliaen M. Van Rensselaer,

New York

BY BURNING 25% SLOWER than
the average of the 4 other largest-
selling brands tested — slower than
any of them — Camels also give you a
smoking plus equal, on the average, to

5 EXTRA SMOKES
PER PACK!

A Darling Girl... A new Party Dress-
but the Same Old Question of a Date!

No girl should risk underarm odor when Mum so surely guards charm!

NO ART OF DRESS, no natural loveli-
ness, no beauty aid a girl could com-
mand can make up for the fault of per-
sonal undaintiness— for the offense of un-
derarm odor.

A girl may have an enchanting skin and
lovely lips— clothes in the peak of fashion.
But one offense against personal daintiness,
one moment of unguarded charm and
even the most eager admirer receives an
impression that a girl may never change.

Too many girls trust a bath alone to
keep free from offending. But no bath,
however fresh it leaves you, can guarantee
you lasting charm. A bath corrects the
faults of past perspiration— it cannot pre-
vent the risk of underarm odor to come. Un-
less you give underarms special care you
can be guilty of offending and never know it.

That's why so many popular girls use
Mum daily. A quick dab under each arm
and your charm is safe— safe for business,
safe for dates, safe all day or all evening
long. Play safe— guard your precious charm
with quick, safe, dependable Mum.

More women use Mum than any other
deodorant. Housewives, business girls,
movie stars and nurses know that their
husbands, their jobs, their friends are too
important to offend. They prefer Mum for:

SPEED— When you're in a hurry, Mum
takes only 30 seconds to smooth on.

SAFETY— Mum won't irritate skin. And the
American Institute of Laundering assures
you Mum won't injure even fine fabrics.

DEPENDABILITY —Daintiness is lasting
with Mum on guard. Without attempting
to check perspiration, Mum protects
against underarm odor for hours to come.
Start now to guard your charm— get a jar
of Mum at your druggist's today.

• • •

FOR SANITARY NAPKINS-You need a

gentle, safe deodorant for Sanitary Napkins—
that's why so many women use Mum. Always
use Mum this important way, too.

NO DEODORANT QUICKER .. .SAFER .. .SURER .. .THAN MUM!

TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION

SEPTEMBER, 1941

ERNEST V. HEYN
Executive Editor

VOL. 16. No. 5

MiRXOR

BELLE LANDESMAN, ASSISTANT EDITOR

FRED R. SAMMIS
Editor

■ CONTENTS

special Features

Tell Me You Love Me 10

Was the world's laughter always to keep him from his heart's desire?

Orphans of Divorce 12

Another famous air drama brought to you as a complete radio novel

Bitter Sweet Adele Whitely Fletcher 1 7

The tender romance of Mary Margaret McBride

Heartbreakers 18

He believed a lie, not the truth that was in her eyes

Pepper Young's Family 22

More of your favorite people in living portraits

Young Doctor Malone Norton Russell 26

Continue this excising story of a physician's private life

Your Marriage Happiness Beatrice Kay 29

You can profit from this singing comedienne's own experience

If You Were Mrs. Ralph Edwards Judy Ashley 30

You'd have inherited a home furnished by bachelors

Girl About Town Joan Edwards 32

Composed by a charming star and it's Radio Mirror's Hit of the Month

Home of The Brave 34

Radio's tender story of the gallant people of New Chance

The Cooking Corner Suggests — Top It Off With Sweets! Kate Smith 38

New and flavorsome dessert recipes

Superman in Radio 40

Another daring rescue by this great hero from another world

A Rainey Day Dream "Bud" Rainey 80

A poem by the "Poet of the Mike"

/lc/dec/ //tfracttons

What Do You Want to Say? 3

What's New From Coast to Coast Dan Senseney 4

Facing The Music Ken Alden 8

Inside Radio — The Radio Mirror Almanac 41

Cling To That Summer Tan Dr. Grace Gregory 50

•
ON THE COVER— Betty Wragge, star of Pepper Young's Family, heard on NBC

Kodachrome by Charles P. Seawood

ItADIO AND TELEVISION MIKKOK. published monthly by MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, INC., Washington and South Avenues, Dunellen.
New Jersey. General Offices: 205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. Editorial and advertising offices: Chanin Building, 122 East 42nd Street, New
York. O. J. Elder, President; Haydock Miller. Secretary; Chas. H. Shattuck. Treasurer; Walter Hanlon, Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221
North LaSalle St., O. A. Keldon, Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Francisco, 420 Market Street. Hollywood: 7751 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews,
Manager. Entered as second-class matter September 14, 1933, at the Post Office at Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Price
per ropy In United States and Canada 10c. Subscription price In United States and Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland $1.00 a year. In Cuba,
Mexico, Haiti. Dominican Republic, Spain and Possessions, and Central and South American countries, excepting British Honduras, British. Dutch
;md French Guiana. $1.50 a year; all other countries $2.50 a year. While Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings are submitted at the owner's
risk, every effort will be made to return those found unavailable If accompanied by sufficient first-class postage, and explicit name and address,
contributors are especially advised to be sure to retain copies of their contributions; otherwise they are taking unnecessary risk. Unaccepted letters
for the "What Do You want to Say?" department will not be returned, and we will not be responsible for any losses of such matter contributed.
All submissions become the property of the magazine. (Member of Macfadden Women's Group.) The contents of this magazine may not be
printed, either wholly or In part, without permission. Copyright. 1941L by the Macfadden Publications, Inc. Title trademark registered In U. S.

Patent Office. Printed in

A. by Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

IT'S BEEN A REAL TREAT

I THINK our radio entertainment gets
■ better every day. Some of the
"goodies" offered us within the past
few weeks are —

Orson Welles, substituting for John
Barrymore, joining forces with Rudy
Vallee and giving himself and his
"wonder boy" reputation as sly a raz-
zing as ever surprised a listener.

Little Jackie Benny's humiliating
experience at the hands of the bril-
liant Quiz Kids. Comedy at it's best.
— Miss B. Clements, San Francisco.

ORCHIDS TO THE NEW
COMMERCIALS

My hat is off to the snappy, one-
minute ads that are becoming so
popular on the air. At last advertis-
ers have found a way to get listener
attention, hold it to the end of the
advertising message, and entertain
the man at the dial at the same time.
Most important of all, these brief
commercials indelibly impress the
name of the product on the listener's
mind. — Alma Deane Fuller, Manhat-
tan, Kansas.

KITTY KEENE'S HUSBAND
MUST REFORM1

I have long been an eager listener
to the Kitty Keene program. In all
her adventures on sea and land, her
husband, Allen, or Charles, (as he re-
named himself) helped Kitty, and
fully merited her desperate efforts
to save him from the electric chair
and discover the true murderer.

Consequently, I have wanted to
protest to the author of this serial.
Why, why must Charles Williams
have evolved into such a consum-
mate heel? Just now he appears to
be a sponger, cheat and liar, and I
don't like those qualities in a man
who seemed to be, for so many years,
just the opposite. Please put him in
a wreck or some other catastrophe
that will knock some sense into him.
— Mrs. Margaret Moody, Denver
Colorado.

NOTICE

SEPTEMBER, 1941

New Loveliness can be yours
Go on the Camay

ttw*

r 1

This lovely bride, Mrs. Frank Morell, Jr., Mt. Vernon, N. Y., says, "I'm really thank-
ful that I went on a 'Mild-Soap' Diet. All my friends tell me how lovely my skin
looks— and I'm sure it's largely due to Camay and the 'Mild-Soap' Diet."

Try this exciting beauty idea —
praised by lovely brides — based
on the advice of skin specialists!

SO MANY WOMEN dim the beauty of
their skin through improper cleans-
ing. Others use a beauty soap not as mild
as it should be. "My constant beauty care
is Camay and the Camay 'Mild-Soap'
Diet," says Mrs. Morell, a bride whose
lovely complexion makes her an expert.

Leading skin specialists we've con-
sulted advise a regular cleansing routine
—daily cleansing with a fine, mild soap.
And Camay is not only mild— but milder !
Yes, milder by actual test than ten other
popular beauty soaps. That's why we say,
"Go on the Camay 'Mild-Soap' Diet."

Every single day— twice a aay— for 30
days— give your skin Camay's gentle care.
Don't miss a single day. It's the regular
cleansing that will help you in a few
short weeks to see a more appealing skin.

Trade M.irl:
Reg. U. S.
Pat. Off.

Camay is milder by actual
other popular beauty soaps

THE SOAP OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

recorded test — in tests against ten
Camay was milder than any of theml

Go on the

CAMAY

MILD

SOAP"

DIET!

Work Camay's milder lather
over your skin, paying special
attention to nose, base of the
nostrils and chin. Rinse with
warm water and follow with 30
seconds of cold splashings.

Then, while you sleep, the tiny
pore openings are free to func-
tion for natural beauty. In the
morning — one more quick ses-
sion with this milder Camay.
Follow this routine faithfully.

What's New from Coast to Coas

Jack Benny's found the ideal way to spend a vacation —
making a movie of "Charley's Aunt" in which he enacts
scenes like this one with Ann Baxter and Arleen Whelan.

20th Ccnttir\-Fo.r

ACTRESS HELEN CLAIRE was
married in May to Dr. Milton
k Smith, head of Columbia Uni-
versity's drama department. They
kept the wedding a secret until June,
and then surprised their friends with
it because that was the next best thing
to a June wedding.

* * *

Ilka Chase, star of CBS' Penthouse

Party show, has signed up to be a

New York air raid warden.
» » *

All you Jessica Dragonette fans will
soon be able to welcome your favorite
back on a weekly show. She starts as
regular singing star of the CBS Satur-
day Night Serenade the middle of
August.

* * *

Betty Olson— the Betty of NBC's
singing group, The Escorts and Betty
— has announced her engagement to
Don Hemstreet of Chicago. They
haven't set a date yet, but they're
looking for a house.

Martha Stevenson
Kemp, who was
widowed when Hal
Kemp died in an
automobile accident
last year, is now
Mrs. Victor Mature.
The bridegroom is
the movie actor who
appeared in one or
two pictures before
going to Broadway
and a greater suc-
cess in Gertrude

By DAN SENSENEY

Lawrence's play, "Lady in the Dark."
The couple will live in Hollywood,
where Mature has gone to take up

his screen career again.

* * *

NEW HAVEN, Conn.— One of the
happiest voices heard on station WELI,
New Haven, belongs to Ruth Howard,
talented and beautiful daughter of
Tom Howard, the comedian who used

Comedian Tom Howard's daugh-
ter Ruth is a radio star herself,
on station WELI in New Haven.

to broadcast with George Shelton. As
Your Radio Hostess, Ruth is on WELI
Mondays through Fridays at 12 noon,
presenting a half-hour program of
information about all the things that
interest her.

Ruth got valuable training from her
father by appearing with him on
many of his personal appearance en-
gagements, in his Paramount and Edu-
cational motion pictures, and on his
different network programs. But she
wasn't satisfied to shine in reflected
glory, and besides, she wanted to
write; so after the usual disappoint-
ments and rejection slips she became
a contributor to various women's
magazines. Early in 1937 she started
writing radio material, and went on
the air in Utica, New York, over sta-
tion WIBX. From Utica she went to
Syracuse, then to Albany, then Bos-
ton, and now she's in New Haven.

Ruth admits that she entered radio
because she loves to talk. "I can't re-
sist glimpsing and then telling about
new fashions and famous people and
our next door neigh-
bors who lend us
sugar and courage,"
she says. "And
about the neighbors
who tell us when to
get a fresh haircut
and who the new
blonde is who was
waiting for the bus
the menfolk took to
town yesterday
morning. ( C an -
tinned on page 6)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIBBOI

There she foes . . .
AND

""DEFORE trying to get her into the club,
■*~^ you'd think Agatha would have told
her . . ."

"A delicate subject, my dear — and any wo-
man her age who has to be told deserves what
she gets."

So it was "thumbs down" on the newcomer
trying to make a place for herself and her family
in the community that was to be their home.
She had yet to learn the importance of first meet-
ings, when the sizing up can be so critical . . .
had failed to realize that one can't be too care-
ful in guarding against halitosis (unpleasant
breath).

One little "slip" that you may never live
down, is that of offending with unpleasant
breath. And the insidious thing about this con-
dition is that you yourself may nor realize

when you have it.

Why not take the delightful breath-sweeten-
ing precaurion that so many use — Listenne
Antiseptic!

Some cases of bad breath are due ro systemic
conditions. But most, declare some leading
aurhorities, are due to the fermentation of tiny
food particles that cling to tooth, gum and
mouth surfaces.

Listerine Antiseptic halts such fermentation
then overcomes the odors it causes. Your breath
becomes sweeter, purer, less likely to offend.

Remember, when you want to put your best
foot forward, rinse the mouth with Lisrenne
Antiseptic. It may pay you rich dividends in
friendship and popularity

Lambert Pharmacai. Company. .SV. Louis, Mo.

SEPTEMBER. 1941

Before all engagements use Listerine to
combat Halitosis (unpleasant breath)

(Continued from page 4)
Don Dunphy, who came from ob-
scurity to announce the Joe Louis-
Billy Conn fight on Mutual, literally
became a star overnight. Listeners
were almost unanimous in their praise
of the exciting and graphic way he
described that thrilling battle. Until
he successfully passed the competi-
tive audition Mutual and the sponsor
held before selecting a man to an-
nounce the fight, Don was a staff an-
nouncer at a local New York station,
completely unknown as far as the
networks were concerned.

* * *

Every performer in radio, in New
York as well as in Hollywood, was
saddened by the death of Mary "Bub-
bles" Kelley. Almost as wide as she
was tall, Bubbles was one of the
jolliest of radio comedians. Although
she never reached stardom herself,
she worked at one time or another on
most of the big network fun-shows,
and it would have been hard to visit
any broadcast without finding several
of her friends in the studio, she had
so many. Before her death, which
occurred in her sleep after a long
illness, she had played important roles
in the Blondie, Al Pearce, and Burns
and Allen programs.

* * *

One of those moments that cut ten
years off your life came to the entire
cast of the Kate Hopkins serial the
other day. Just as the program was
about to go on the air a large screen
in the CBS studio fell over and struck
Margaret Macdonald, who plays the
leading role of Kate, on the head. She
was stunned, and the director had
visions of finding a substitute leading
lady in less than half a minute — but
he recovered just in time to read her
lines.

• ♦ ♦

SALT LAKE CITY, Utah— Station
KDYL's boss, as far as things dramatic
go, is Jay DuWayne. He's the director
of the KDYL Players and presents
'hem in the Candlelight Series — plays
which he himself writes and produces,
and in which he plays the principal
haracter parts.

But Jay came to radio the hard way,

via the great depression. He was born

n Salt Lake City, but moved with

lis family to Nephi, Utah, just before

lie reached high school age. Since as

Remember Hollywood Hotel? Its
unbeatable singing team, Fran-
ces Longford and Dick Powell,
are together again in the CBS
Friday show, Southern Cruise.

far back as he could remember he'd
wanted to be an actor, but there didn't
seem to be much chance to achieve
that ambition in the Rocky Mountain
region, where there were few large
cities and no resident stock companies
where a young actor could get train-
ing and earn a living.

In the early 1930's, during the de-
pression, while Jay was in his Junior
year of high school, he got an idea.
He'd form a theatrical company of his
own and take it on tour. Jay had
missed a couple of years of school
because of illness, and consequently
was older than other members of his
class. This made things easier be-
cause it gave him the necessary
authority. He surrounded himself
with a cast — two other boys and two
girls, picked out some play scripts,
acquired a second-hand sedan and a
luggage trailer, and started out.

The venture was a real success. The

Jay DuWayne came from touring
with his own company to direct-
ing plays for Salt Lake's KDYL.

company played in what are known
as Ward houses, recreational centers
that are maintained by the Mormon
Church. They made their own
scenery or collected it as they went
along. Jay kept the cast down to five
people, rewriting plays when neces-
sary to fit that number. It was this
re-writing experience that brought
him to KDYL five years ago when
the DuWayne Traveling Players
finally broke up.

The second year. Jay was out with
his company he married his high
school sweetheart, and while Mrs.
DuWayne isn't an actress she shares
her husband's enthusiasm and love
for the theater. For three years she
designed and made many of the cos-
tumes. Their little daughter Mar jean,
now ten years old, has hopes of fol-
lowing in her father's footsteps, and
three years ago brought her parents
their greatest thrill by making her
stage debut acting with Jay in the
same theater where the DuWayne
Players first appeared.

Jay says the most satisfactory part
of acting over KDYL is knowing that
each performance is heard by all the
friends to whom he played in the
many rural communities of the Rocky
Mountain country.

* * *
Remember Ralph Dumke, one of

the Sisters of the Skillet? He's now
playing the part of Andy Nunan in
the Myrt and Marge serial. He re-
ports, proudly, that he's been dieting
for a year and has managed to slim
down from 250 pounds to 249.

* * *

Another Myrt and Marge note:
Chester Stratton is playing Bob Keith
on that show. He got the part on a
hurry-up audition when another
actor, previously hired, failed to show
up for the rebroadcast. The director
needed someone who could sing, and
that's always been one of Chester's
ambitions, kept in the background by
his acting career. So now everyone is
happy — except the actor who forgot to
return for the rebroadcast.

* * *
Raymond Gram Swing didn't expect

to miss a single one of his sponsored
Mutual network broadcasts on the
flying trip to England he took in July
— but just in case something hap-
pened he prepared one recorded pro-

HADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

gram for use in a pinch. With world
conditions the way they are, he
couldn't even be certain of reaching
England safely, much less being able
to broadcast from there.
* * *
Manhattan sideshow: Charles
Laughton, in New York for a vacation
and an appearance on CBS' Wednes-
day-night Millions for Defense pro-
gram, standing on a street corner
feeding pigeons with corn from his
pockets. The birds must have been
real Laughton fans — they were perch-
ing on his outstretched hands to take

the corn.

* * *

Marjorie Hannan, the young star
you hear as Ruth Ann Graham in
NBC's serial, Bachelor's Children, has
a new kind of memory book — a charm
bracelet with a tiny gold figure to
commemorate every happy event in
her life. Her husband started it
when they were engaged by giving
her the foundation chain and one
charm — a tiny pair of handcuffs to re-
mind her she was no longer free.
Other gadgets that have been added
since are a small microphone to keep
Marjorie in mind of her profession;
a clock with its hands set at 8:30, the
hour she has to be in the studio for
rehearsal; a cowboy on a bucking
bronco, souvenir of a happy vacation
in the west; a clipper plane, reminis-
cent of a flight to Havana; a flatiron
in honor of her iron wedding anniver-
sary; and, of course, a tiny wedding
ring. No little replica of a bassinet —

yet.

* * *

CHARLOTTE, N. C. — Although
Jack Knell, station WBT's new news
editor only recently came to Carolina,
his fame as an air reporter is nation-
wide. He has covered some of the
most important special events in the
country for CBS, one of which brought
him the highest honor in the news-
gathering profession. He won the 1939
National Headliners Club award for
turning in the year's finest radio re-
porting job.

Jack was on the special events staff
of WEEI in Boston when news reached
the station that the U. S. submarine,
Squalus, had gone down off Ports-
mouth, N. H. Jack and his portable
broadcasting equipment rushed to the
scene, and for seventeen hours, with-
out food, Jack clung to the gunwale
of a twenty-foot open boat with one
(Continued on page 79)

Because he couldn't stand the
hustle of city life, Jack Knell
is news editor of station WBT.

I don't cane if you never
come home/

HOW A YOUNG WIFE OVERCAME THE "ONE NEGLECT"
THAT WRECKS SO MANY MARRIAGES

I.I thought my husband was all to blame, He'd been leaving me home alone night
after night. Our once-blissful marriage seemed headed for the rocks. I was almost frantic.

2. In despair, I went to see my sister-in-law —
Sarah's been so happily married for years. When
I told her about our troubles, she said: "You
may be the guilty one, Sis. Often a husband's
love grows cold just because a wife is careless
— or ignorant — about feminine hygiene. It's
one neglect few husbands can forgive."

3. "My own marriage was once in danger,"
Sarah said, "until my doctor set me right. He
advised 'Lysol' for intimate personal care.
He told me it does more than cleanse and
deodorize. Being an efficient germicide, "Lysol'
kills millions of germs instantly on contact,
and without discomfort to you."

4. I understand now why so many thousands
of modern women rely on "Lysol" for feminine
hygiene. It's gentle — yet so effective. And
costs so little to use. I'll never risk losing my
husband again. Yes, he comes home now —
and brings me flowers!

Check this with your Doctor

"Lysol" is NON-CAUSTIC— gentle and
efficient in proper dilution. Contains no
free alkali. It is not carbolic acid.
EFFECTIVE— a powerful germicide,
active in presence of organic matter
(such as mucus, serum, etc.). SPREAD-
ING— "Lysol" solutions spread and
virtually search, out germs in deep
crevices. ECONOMICAL— small hottle
makes almost 4 gallons of solution for
feminine hygiene. LASTING — "Lysol"
keeps full strength indefinitely no mat-
ter how often it is uncorked. CLEANLY
ODOR — disappears after use.

FOR FEMININE HYGIENE

Ooor.. 1941 by l.ohn & Kink Product! Corp.

For FREE booklet (in plain envelope) about Feminine Hygiene and other "Lysol" uses,
send postcard to Lehn & Fink Products Corp., Dept. RTM-941. Bloomfield, N. .1., I .S. A.

SEPTEMBER. 1941

tfw^^

So far, Vaughn Monroe is 1941 's only new band sensation.
He started by playing the trumpet, but a chance to sing
sent him along the road to fame. Left, pretty Marilyn
Duke, tallest girl in the business, is Vaughn's vocalist.

CHARLIE BARNET is still the
madcap of music. After he an-
nounced that he and his fourth
wife, Harriet Clark, had been recon-
ciled, word came that Harriet had
signed a contract to sing with Sonny
Dunham's band instead of her hus-
band's aggregation. When Charlie
thought his girl vocalist troubles were
over with the acquisition of Mildred
Wayne, this Chicago canary refused to
leave the Windy City because "she
was scared to come to New York."

To insure himself against further
singing headaches, the tall saxophon-
ist hired The Quintones, a rhythmic
group that may give the Merry Macs
competition.

» * *

"Hollywood is the last place in the
world to go," say new songwriters
Bob Schaefer and Irving Rose, "if
you're trying to get a break writing
music for movies." These two lads
tried it, and after five fruitless years
returned to New York. Back in
Gotham they penned a tune called
"Tattle Tale" and it is touted to be
one of the summer season's hits. On
the strength of it a music firm that
publishes most of the songs in Bing
Crosby's pictures signed the team to a
long-term pact.

• » •

Still another songwriting newcomer
is Bob Kroup, an undergraduate at
the University of Pennsylvania. He
wrote "Daddy," Sammy Kaye's new-
est recording smash. It is expected
to have a sale in record:, and sheet
music totalling 250,000.

• » *

There's a pood chance next season

By KEN ALDEN

of hearing Ted Straeter's fine band on
the air. Ted is also choirmaster on
the Kate Smith show. His orchestra
was not aired last year because he
played in a swank night spot that was
allergic to network wires because it
might attract "the wrong people."
Ted is now seeking a more democratic
spot, preferably a large hotel.
* * *
THIS CHANGING WORLD: Floyd
Sullivan is Johnny Long's new drum-
mer, replacing Jules Mendelsohn. . . .
Charlie Spivak's new theme is "Moon
Dreams," written by arranger Sonny
Burke. . . . Glenn Miller returns to
New York in August. . . . Tony Pas-
tor's singer, Dorsey Anderson, has left
to join the Army. ... Is Tony Martin
soon to be tapped by Uncle Sam?. . . .
Gray Gordon married lovely Noel
Carter between band engagements.

Charlie Spivak spotted the Debs,
vocal trio, in a Baltimore hotel.
Now they're singing with his band.

. . . Tommy Dorsey is due to have his
tonsils removed. . . . Lou Breese re-
turns to Chicago's Chez Paree this
month. . . . Erskine Hawkins, hot
Harlem trumpeter, is trying out for
serious dramatic parts on the air. . . .
You may soon be hearing Ted Steele's
new 16-piece danceband on records.

♦ * *

The only bass players now leading
orchestras in this country are Sergei
Koussevitsky, world famed conductor
of the Boston Symphony, and John
Kirby, dusky swingster. They tell this
story of how Kirby decided to play
the big bass fiddle. Years ago, before
Kirby had received recognition, some-
one swiped his precious trombone. He
couldn't afford future thefts. "The
devil with this." he resolved, "I'll play
something they can't steal — a bull
fiddle !"

» * *

Sister Tharpe, noted Holy Roller
evangelist singer, has quit her church
activities to become Lucky Millinder's
vocalist. You can hear her from Har-
lem's Savoy Ballroom, via NBC.

* * »

When Glenn Miller played Holly-
wood's Palladium ballroom this
Spring, he had some cinema celeb-
rities as unexpected members of the
band. Mickey Rooney, John Payne,
and Jackie Cooper would often sit in
with the Miller men. For their volun-
teer work, Glenn presented each one
with a set of drum sticks.

# * *

They say the reason Carl Hoff gave
up the lucrative post of Al Pearce's
musical director was that he was
bored. Carl felt he was not playing

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

the music he liked. Now Carl has a
dance band and while it is far from
the top brackets at this stage, he tells
friends he is having more fun. Tune
them in on MBS from Armonk, N. Y.
* » *

The most exciting new band I have
heard recently will probably never
play a one night stand or an engage-
ment at the N. Y. Paramount. It is
the Fort Dix, N. J., army swing unit.
It was organized by private Herbie
Fields, who used to play with Ray-
mond Scott before he was conscripted.
Herbie rounded up a score of former
swing stars, now working for $21 a
month, and they play every Sunday
on MBS' "This is Fort Dix" broad-
casts.

THE JUKE BOX GENT

IF Vaughn Monroe hadn't decided
■ one day to put his trumpet in the
background and rely more on his re-
sponsive vocal chords for a living,
1941 might well go down in music
annals as the year that didn't develop
a single new dance band sensation.

As a mediocre trumpeter employed
by equally mediocre orchestras, the
tall, powerful Ohioan was tabbed just
another young man with a horn. Then
he opened his mouth wide instead of
puckering it, and amazing things re-
sulted. Many better known leaders
are going to begin wishing this new
rival had kept his tunes on his
trumpet, because Vaughn is a sure
bet to pass them in the swing sweep-
stakes.

The joyous juke box industry right-
fully takes full credit.

"Gosh, if it wasn't for that guy and
Jimmy Dorsey," one big record dealer
told me, "business would be brutal."

"Every time a new Monroe platter
comes out," a well-known director of
a radio station recorded program
stated, "we wear out three sides in
two weeks."

Not until Monroe crashed through,
could the recently revived record
medium lay claim to a personality
fully developed on disks. Although
this new star had several network
wires, few fans heard these in-
termittent broadcasts. His following
sprouted from listeners in jitterbug
ice cream parlors, campus beaneries,
and highway coffee pots.

Now the juke box trade is worried
for fear that Monroe's good looks and
enviable physique might attract the
movie scouts.

"There is some talk about movie
contracts," says. Monroe cautiously,
"but we want the band included. I
think you better check my manager."

Vaughn's mentor preferred to side-
track talk of such lucrative possi-
bilities and point out that a string of
summer one nighters, heavy record-
ing sessions, and a Fall opening at
New York's Hotel Commodore would
keep Monroe active.

Despite only a few months' ex-
perience, Vaughn handles himself
smoothly. His only trouble is what
to do with his hands when singing.
He now keeps them rigidly at his side.
However, his six foot two frame,
blond hair and he-mannish voice
make the adoring girls forget such
1 minor stage errors.

"He's too good looking," moaned a
theater manager. "He makes the girls
stay through four shows. I couldn't
get them out if I had Gable in the
lobby."

Vaughn was born 29 years ago in
(Continued on page 72)

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After the heartaches that go with
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what a thrill to discover Cashmere
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Daily refresh and rejuvenate your
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First: Cream your face thoroughly
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Cashmere Bouquet. Work it gently,
but well around large-pore areas of
nose and chin.

Next: Rinse with warm water;
then a dash of cold. Pat your face
dry, don't rub. Now, skin is glow-
ingly clean and refreshed.

For bathing too, the exotic lather
of Cashmere Bouquet is heavenly.
Leaves you scented all over with the
fragrance men love.

Buy it today at 3 cakes for 25c.

WITH THE FRAGRANCE MEN LOVE

SEPTEMBER. 1941

Skeeter knew he was too awkward and funny for anyone to take
seriously but that didn't stop him from falling headlong, hope-
lessly in love with the most beautiful girl in the whole world

A LETTER! The letter.
Skeeter Russell stared at
the square of white paper. This
was it. One way or the other, this
was the end. Either this was what
he had been waiting for all his life,
or it was the last, longest, biggest
laugh of all. Inside this crisp, white
envelope was the answer. And he
was afraid to open it.

Suddenly, time shrank and
Brewster City was big again, practi-
cally as big as the whole world to
a boy in knee pants. A boy named
Skeeter Russell.

There was a classroom and a
teacher at the front of it. She was
talking. Skeeter was in the next
to the last row. He wasn't listening.
His eyes were on a girl sitting three
rows ahead of him. Her hair was
blonde. Like gold, Skeeter was
thinking. He was seeing her face,
the great, wide, brown eyes, the
straight, little nose and the gentle
mouth. She was the prettiest girl in
Brewster City, in the whole world,
he guessed. She had the prettiest
name, too. Lynn Cutler.

"... 'stern States? Skeeter?"
the teacher said.

Skeeter jumped to his feet. He
could feel the heat, surging up his
neck and over his face. He gulped.

"Did you hear the question?" the
teacher demanded.

"Er — No, ma'am," Skeeter stam-
mered.

"I thought so," the teacher said.
"I thought you were just mooning
— like a — like a love sick calf." A
boy let out a whoop of laughter and
a wave of titters ran over the room.
"Quiet!" the teacher ordered. "Sit
down, Skeeter. I declare, I don't
know what's come over you."

He sat down. The boy behind him
poked him in the back and Skeeter
looked around. "Love sick calf!" the
boy muttered behind his hand and
his shoulders shook with silent
laughter.

And then, time went by so quietly
that Skeeter barely noticed its

passing. His gangling body seemed
to stretch itself out and, somehow,
even his first suit with long pants
failed to hide the bony knees and
long, skinny legs. The sleeves of
his coat never quite covered his
wrists and his hands, roughened
by the work he did on the farm,
just looked knobbier and bigger as
he grew older. There was always
something loose about the way he
moved that suggested he was tied
together with string.

He did his best, but no amount of
brushing or grease could keep that
one tuft of sun bleached hair from
falling over his right eye, like a de-
jected dog ear. His eyebrows were
very light blonde and his eyelashes
almost invisible, giving his face a
sort of unfinished appearance. Once,
he tried fixing that with soot mixed
with lard, but that only made it
worse. The blackened, bushy brows
had a menacing and sinister look,
that was comically at variance with
the rubbery looseness of his wide,
generous mouth, and made his thin,
sharp nose seem even more pinched
and beaklike.

He was acutely aware of his
awkwardness and the more he wor-
ried about it, the more awkward he
was. And the more people laughed.
But, as he grew up, he learned other
things besides Latin and algebra and
geometry. He learned not to show
that he minded being laughed at.
He learned never to seem serious
before others. He learned to let peo-
ple laugh only at those things which
could not hurt him. He learned to
keep other things to himself.

The time came to think of col-
lege and, because there was very
little extra money on the farm,
Skeeter worked hard for a scholar-
ship. Luckily, the baseball coach

Adapted from a radio script of a
Lincoln Highway broadcast that
was heard Saturday at 11:00 A.M.,
E.D.T.. over the NBC-Red network,
and starred Ellssa Landl and Ster-
ling Holloway, sponsored by Shlnola.

Skeeter put his hands on her
waist — he forgot what he was
supposed to be doing. "Lift
me up," Lynn said softly.

at Ardmore had seen Skeeter pitch.
A word here and a word there and
a good record and Skeeter's tuition
was taken care of and he found
himself with a couple of jobs to pro-
vide him with living expenses. But
he had to move into town. The farm
was too far away and he had no car
to take him to his early morning
job — waiting on tables in a frater-
nity dining room.

Somehow, Brewster City seemed
smaller, by that time. It seemed
empty, too. Lynn Cutler wasn't
there. She had gone East to college.

Freshman year, Sophomore year.
Skeeter knew many people. He was
popular, because he could make peo-
ple laugh. They loved to laugh, so
he helped them. He worked up an
act. He put on a show, on the base-
ball diamond, in the classroom, at
parties. And he discovered that be-
ing funny was a protection. People
never got past their own laughter.
They couldn't reach him to hurt him.
But he was lonely.

Junior year, Senior year. He was
rooming with Pat Hines by that
time. Sometimes, Skeeter wondered
why Pat had asked him to room
with him. After all, the only in-
terest they had in common was
baseball. Pat was the team man-
ager, Skeeter had become the star
pitcher. But Pat was the most
popular man on the campus, be-
cause he (Continued on page 62)

Skeeter knew he was too owkword and funny for anyone to take
seriously but that didn't stop him from falling headlong, hope-
lessly in love with the most beautiful girl in the whole world

Suddenly, time shrank and
Brewster City was big again, practi-
cally as big as the whole world to
a boy in knee pants. A boy named
Skeeter Russell.

"... 'stern States? Skeeter?"
the teacher said.

Skeeter jumped to his feet. He
could feel the heat, surging up his
neck and over his face. He gulped.

"Did you hear the question?" the
teacher demanded.

"Er — No, ma'am," Skeeter stam-
mered.

He sat down. The boy behind him
poked him in the back and Skeeter
looked around. "Love sick calf!" the
boy muttered behind his hand and
his shoulders shook with silent
laughter.

And then, time went by so quietly
that Skeeter barely noticed its

The time came to think of col-
lege and, because there was very
little extra money on the farm,
Skeeter worked hard for a scholar-
ship. Luckily, the baseball coach

Adapted from a radio serlpf of a
Lincoln Highway broadcast that
was heard Saturday at 11:00 A.M.,
E.D.T.. over the NBC-Red network,
and starred Elista Landl and Ster-
ling Hollo way, sponsored by Shlnola.

at Ardmore had seen Skeeter pitch
A word here and a word there and
a good record and Skeeter's tuition
was taken care of and he found
himself with a couple of jobs to pro-
vide him with living expenses. But
he had to move into town. The farm
was too far away and he had no car
to take him to his early morning
job— waiting on tables in a frater-
nity dining room.

Somehow, Brewster City seemed
smaller, by that time. It seemed
empty, too. Lynn Cutler wasn't
there. She had gone East to college

Freshman year, Sophomore yeai
Skeeter knew many people. He was
popular, because he could make peo
pie laugh. They loved to laugh -
he helped them. He worked up an
act. He put on a show, on the base-
ball diamond, in the classroom, at
parties. And he discovered thai be-
ing funny was a protection. People
never got past their own laughter
They couldn't reach him to hurt him.
But he was lonely.

THE CAB stopped with a jerk,
frightening a lean and evil-eyed
cat out of the gutter. It disap-
peared in a flash down an alleyway
that was choked with refuse.

Nora Knight sat motionless, look-
ing at the stained front of the old
house, squeezed in between equally
disreputable buildings on each side.
There were lights in some of the
tawdrily-curtained windows; others
were dark.

"You sure this is the address?"
the driver said, and she answered
weakly:

"I'm afraid it is."

Standing on the curb while the
cab coughed its way back toward

Bleecker Street and the brightness
of Greenwich Village's shopping
center, Nora fought against a sud-
den, overwhelming desire to turn her
back and walk away. It was so hard
to be sure she was doing right! Some
instinct warned her to take care —
that she might be setting her feet
upon a path that would lead her in-
evitably back to —

But that was foolish! Cyril need
never know she had been here!

She turned her thoughts away.
This was where Alex and Barbara
were living, she reminded herself.
In all her frantic, unhappy moments
since she'd heard that Alex's fortune
was swept away, while she had pic-

Juliet was like some enraged jungle
animal. In unconscious sympathy, Nora
had laid her hand on Cyril s shoulder.

Should a woman force her-
self for the sake of her
children to continue a mar-
riage that has become un-
bearable? Nora had made
her choice, but now —

Fictionized from the popular radio serial
heard Monday through Friday, at 3 P. M.,
E.D.T.. on the NBC-Blue network. sponsored
by the makers of Dr. Lyons' Tootnpowder.

tured her daughter and son-in-law
giving up their luxury for a small,
inexpensive apartment, she had
never imagined the squalor that she
was seeing now.

The bitterness that Barbara must
be tasting was in her mouth too.

Barbara, so lovely, tall, and al-
ways exquisitely groomed, living in
this dreary, ill-kept tenement, des-
perate for money that could lessen
the terror of poverty for Alex and
for their tiny baby Sandy.

Inside the hallway, Nora stopped
to look for the name that would
direct her to the apartment she was
seeking. There it was, a soiled white
card with the lettering in pencil.

The top floor. Nora began her
ascent, up a bare stairway dimly lit
by an unshaded bulb burning at the
first landing.

It must be her fault somehow,
Nora thought. Certainly her daugh-
ter had done nothing to deserve this.
Had she failed all her children?
Dick and Joan as well as Barbara?
At the time there had seemed noth-
ing else she could do but cut herself
off from them, with what suffering
she alone knew.

Or had she failed them on that
earlier day when she agreed to give
their father the divorce he asked
for?

Nora looked up, through the well
of the staircase. She could count
four more bulbs burning. How did
Barbara ever manage five stories
with the baby?

Divorce, her thoughts raced on,
meant so much more than actual
separation from the man you were
married to. To her it had meant
breaking all the emotional ties
which had held her to Cyril Worth-
ington for twenty-five years, years
when they had been bound by their
early love, their hopes and ambitions
for the children, the thousand and
one joys and heartaches that, woven
together, create the marriage fabric.
It meant giving up so much, the
courage and enthusiasm with which
she and Cyril had created a tiny
business and had developed that
business until its profits ran into
millions, the peace and stability that
a loving home had given the chil-
dren, now to be replaced by doubt
and insecurity.

But when none of these ties, when
not even all of them together, can
hold a marriage secure, should a
wife choke down her pride and try
to blind herself to the ever widening

Another Famous Air Drama
Brought to You as a

CO*'

THE CAB stopped with a jerk,
frightening a lean and evil-eyed
cat out of the gutter. It disap-
peared in a flash down an alleyway
that was choked with refuse.

Nora Knight sat motionless look-
ing at the stained front of the old
house, squeezed in between equally
disreputable buildings on each side.
There were lights in some of the
tawdrily-curtained windows; others
were dark.

"You sure this is the address?
the driver said, and she answered
weakly:

"I'm afraid it is."
Standing on the curb while the
cab coughed its way back toward

Bleecker Street and the brightness
of Greenwich Village's shopping
center, Nora fought against a sud-
den overwhelming desire to turn her
back and walk away. It was so hard
to be sure she was doing right! Some
instinct warned her to take care-
that she might be setting her feet
upon a path that would lead her in-
evitably back to —

But that was foolish! Cyril need
never know she had been here!

f/cHonhed from the popular radio serial tured her daughter and son-in-law
heard Monday through Friday, af 3 P. M., eivine UD their luxurv fnr a email
Jot. on the NBC-Blue network, sponsored

■'"'." _J l\m I unite" Trirt+hnnu/fJiir

, 'the makers of Dr. Lyons' Toothpowder.

giving up their luxury for a small,
inexpensive apartment, she had
never imagined the squalor that she
was seeing now.

The bitterness that Barbara must
be tasting was in her mouth too.

Inside the hallway, Nora stopped
to look for the name that would
direct her to the apartment she was
seeking. There it was, a soiled white
card with the lettering in pencil.

Should a woman force her-
self for the sake of her
children to continue a mar-
riage that has become un-
bearable? Nora had made
her choice, but now —

The top floor. Nora began her
ascent, up a bare stairway dimly lit
by an unshaded bulb burning at the
first landing.

Or had she failed them on that
earlier day when she agreed to give
their father the divorce he asked
for?

Nora looked up, through the well
of the staircase. She could count
four more bulbs burning. How did
Barbara ever manage five stories
with the baby?

Divorce, her thoughts raced on,
meant so much more than actual
separation from the man you were
married to. To her it had meant
breaking all the emotional ties
which had held her to Cyril Worth-
ington for twenty-five years, years
when they had been bound by their
early love, their hopes and ambitions
for the' children, the thousand and
one joys and heartaches that, woven
together, create the marriage fabric.
It meant giving up so much, the
courage and enthusiasm with which
she and Cyril had created a tiny
business and had developed that
business until its profits ran into
millions, the peace and stability that
a loving home had given the chil-
dren, now to be replaced by doubt
and insecurity.

But when none of these ties, when
not even all of them together, can
hold a marriage secure, should a
wife, choke down her pride and try
to blind herself to the ever widening

Another Famous Air Drama
Brought to You as a

breach? Should she, for the sake of
her children, fight with all the
strength of her heart, to piece the
marriage together again?

Can a marriage that has once
reached the breaking point ever be
made whole once more?

Torment swelled in Nora's heart
and mind as they had on that eve-
ning more than two years ago. . . .

She had returned from a late
afternoon walk to find her husband
waiting impatiently for her in the
drawing-room of their home in Chi-
cago— a room that Nora had never
been able to enter without recalling
anew that it was twice the size of
the entire apartment in which they
had begun their married life twen-
ty-five years earlier. It was the
first time in many weeks that Cyril
had returned home early from the
office, and Nora was absurdly
pleased that the new tweed suit she
was wearing was both smartly cut
and becoming.

But Cyril Worthington paid no at-
tention either to his wife's new suit
or to her surprised, "Good evening,
Cyril." He faced her with the
domineering manner which had in-
creased with his financial power.

I SUPPOSE you know what I want
to ask you, Nora," he said. Nora
couldn't answer at once. If the fear
that twisted at her heart was only
imaginary, how terrible it would be
to voice it; how terrible to accuse
Cyril of something which perhaps
had no existence except in her own
mind. So she said nothing and Cyril
was silent too, a silence which ac-
cused Nora of deliberately making
a difficult situation more difficult.

"It's about Juliet Defoe," he said
harshly at last. "I — I want to marry
her, Nora."

Thus the thing that Nora feared
and wouldn't let herself put into
words came true. It was Juliet that
Cyril wanted. Juliet whose brittle
gaiety, golden hair and slim alluring
body were so different from Nora's
own gray-haired poise and serenity.
The fact that the difference between
Juliet's twenty-nine years and Cy-
ril's fifty-five was even greater,
neither Nora nor Cyril mentioned —
Cyril because he was trying to hide
that knowledge from himself and
Nora because it wasn't in her nature
to use weapons of petty jealousy and
spite.

Nora gave him his divorce, reach-
ing her decision after hours of anx-
ious thought. Her own heartbreak,
the pride with which she had worn
the name of wife and mother, she
put aside. It was the children, their
welfare and their happiness that she
considered. Her children! Barbara,
twenty-two, the first child to bless

tf#1

her union with Cyril; eighteen-
year-old Dick, just emerging from
the long-legged sensitivity of adoles-
cence to the importance of being a
college man; and Joan — impulsive,
warmhearted little Joan who at fif-
teen was so like Mother Nora had
been at that age. Nora had thought
only of them — not hysterically, but
tenderly, selflessly — and at length
she came to realize that she could
not condemn them to a home which
in the future would hold discord in
place of the love and contentment
they had known.

But the idea of accepting alimony,
as if she were being paid to step
aside and make way for her succes-
sor, was repugnant to her. She felt,
now that Cyril no longer wanted her,
that her very integrity would be de-
stroyed if she was under obligation
to him in the future, so she refused
the large settlement he offered.

From the very first, she knew that
there would be many hours of lone-
liness, living apart from the chil-
dren while Juliet assumed the role
of mother and mistress of the Fifth
Avenue mansion, which Cyril had
bought when his second wife per-
suaded him, soon after their mar-
riage, to move from Chicago to New
York. But she steeled herself against
this loneliness. The children no
longer needed her as they had when
they were little; wouldn't their fu-
ture be better served if they stayed
with their father, secure in the ad-
vantages of his wealth and position,
than if they went with her? Besides,
she comforted herself, they would
visit her frequently — for she, too,
moved to New York after the di-
vorce. It would be strange, seeing
them in new surroundings, but that
would be the only strange thing
about it; their devotion would con-
tinue as before.

What Mother Nora hadn't under-
stood— what she had never even had
occasion to think about — was the
fact that children's love for their
parents can be such a complicated
emotion. She had taken their love
for granted — not smugly, but grate-
fully, exultantly — and with full
awareness that their feeling for
Cyril was as much a part of their
being as their feeling for her.

It wasn't until after the divorce
and Cyril's marriage to Juliet that
she sensed their bewildered misery

at being forced to divide their love
between Cyril and herself instead of
sharing it with them as they had in
the past. But slowly Nora had to face
this new fact. Each time she saw her
children — now rapidly growing up,
Barbara in the meantime married to
young Alex Pratt — each time
showed her more clearly than the
last how they were being pulled be-
tween their loyalty to her and their
loyalty to their father; each visit
showed their increasing resentment
at the divorce and most alarming of
all, the antagonism which was
developing between them and their
young stepmother.

At first the tension was indicated
only faintly, through casual remarks
such as Dick's observation, after he
and Nora had discussed some minor
problem of his, "Gee, Mom, it's swell
to have you to talk things over
with."

It was Joan who opened Nora's
eyes to the paradox that a family
with two mothers really has no
mother at all, for it was Joan who
burst out rebelliously one day with,
"Why should I do what Juliet tells
me to? She's not my mother — you
are. And everybody knows that a
real mother is more important than
a stepmother."

So her children did need a real
mother after all, Nora reflected bit-
terly when Joan had gone — a full-
time mother to whom they could
give all their allegiance. Perhaps
she should ask Cyril to reconsider,
to let Joan and Dick stay with her
for a few years. But as quickly her
mind answered her. It might mean
their complete estrangement from
their father, and that was the one
thing Nora had tried to avoid. Could
it be avoided, though, if the rela-
tionship between Juliet and the
children was not improved? She
had tried not to think about Cyril's
slavish devotion to his new bride,
but now she had to acknowledge that
she was in his every thought. More,
she had to admit that Juliet hated
her, Nora, and found an outlet for
that hatred in the helpless children.
Juliet well knew that the best way
to strike at Nora was through her
children.

All that long, sleepless night Nora
struggled to solve her problem,
torn between a desire to keep her
babies close to her and her even
stronger desire for their security,
emotional as well as financial. And
at last she forced herself to accept
the fact that there was only one
solution. She must step out of their
lives completely — let herself, in fact,
be forced out by Juliet and Cyril.
A wave of bitterness had swept over
her. Give her children to another
woman — to the woman who already

RADIO AND TELEVISION MUtROR

had taken her husband? She couldn't
— wouldn't — do that. But in the end
she knew she had to. With their
mother gone, they would naturally
turn to Juliet, and Juliet just as
naturally would respond by becom-
ing a real mother to them.

Having made her decision, she
carried it through without faltering.
There were no hysterical farewells,
only a business-like agreement
with Juliet and Cyril that she would
agree not to see the children again
if they in turn would agree to make
a real home for them. Then she
ceased to be Nora Kelly Worthing-
ton, ex-wife of Cyril Worthington
— leaving to Cyril the task of ex-
plaining her disappearance to the
children as he thought best. And
in place of Nora Kelly Worthington
there emerged Nora Knight, gov-
erness to twelve-year-old Penelope
Pearson.

A good governess, too, Nora
thought. Certainly Gregory Pear-
son had nothing but praise for the
way in which she was bringing up
his motherless little daughter. Not
that this was ever anything but a
pleasant task. Penelope was a de-
lightful child, so like Joan had been
at twelve that it was the most
natural thing in the world for
Mother Nora to give her the loving
guidance she could no longer offer
Joan, and Penelope returned her af-
fection as whole-heartedly as Joan
would have done. It seemed almost
as though Fate had tried to make
up for parting her from her own
home and children by leading her to
the Pearson household where she
found a ready-made family needing
and grateful for the wise, kindly
help she brought them.

ONLY two members of Mother
Nora's new "family" knew her
real identity — Gregory Pearson and
his confidential secretary, Michael
Windgate. She had felt that it was
Mr. Pearson's right to know every-
thing about her since he was placing
Penelope's education and develop-
ment in her hands. She had never
regretted sharing this confidence;
in fact she had come to be glad that
Michael knew her secret, for it was
through Michael that she had the
first word of her family since she
had walked out of their father's
house and out of their lives.

Nora counted two more flights.
Below her, on the floor she had just
passed, a door slammed angrily and
a man's voice rasping with irritation
sounded through the thin walls.
"Leave me alone, will ya? I tell
ya, I didn't go nowhere."

Nora shivered. Were Barbara and
Alex in such bitter dispute, too,
quarreling because there was no

SEPTEMBER, 1941

better way to relieve the tension
that was gripping them both?

Then there was just the last flight
of steps, more narrow than the
others. Overhead she could see a
faint outline through the dark, dis-
colored skylight that served instead
of an electric light. She stood lis-
tening a moment but there was no
sound ahead.

She must have known now for
weeks. Ever since Michael had first
come to her with the astounding
news that he had met her daughter
Joan at a party. Until then she had
been convinced that she success-
fully had cut herself away from

her family. But in that moment
when Michael described Joan so
glowingly, Nora knew in her heart
that she was not free, that she was
being woven back into the pattern of
her children's lives.

Michael hadn't been able to un-
derstand at first why Mother Nora
still refused to see Joan. Then, after
she had told him, he admitted only
reluctantly that perhaps she was
right. And it had been hard, hear-
ing him talk about Joan, about their
dates together. For Joan was
eighteen now, not a child as Nora
knew her, but a young girl ardent
and eager for life, and in Michael's

There was only one thing Nora asked of life — to be with her three
children, blonde Joan, handsome Dick, and matured, poised Barbara.

adoring eyes Nora could read a
whisper of love that he was still in-
nocent of in his conscious mind.

She had remained unshaken then.
Joan must not know that Michael
could take her to her mother's side.
So the deception had continued. But
when Michael told her about Bar-
bara— that she had been in Pear-
son's office looking for a job — Nora
could be sure no longer. Barbara
was in trouble and her mother was
not with her to give whatever com-
fort there might be in her love and
trust and understanding.

YET she had continued to hesitate.
Once you had chosen your course
and destroyed all means of turning
back, you must continue without
faltering.

How could she have foreseen
Joan's finding her?

Tonight — only a few hours ago!
— she had been sitting in the library
reading, forcing her mind from the
worry of Barbara, when the door-
bell rang. It was the night the
servants were out on their own af-
fairs, and Nora had gone herself to
see who was calling. She opened
the door, then would have closed
it against the girlish figure revealed
in the light from the hallway. But
the girl gave her no chance. With
a rush, she was in Nora's arms,
sobbing.

"Mother!"

Tears were stinging Nora's eyes
as she felt the arms that she had
dreamed so often were around her
neck and Joan's kisses that were on
her face.

"Joan," she cried. "Joan — my
baby."

For a moment Nora could only
cling to her daughter, then she
pulled herself free of the strong,
young embrace.

"Let me — let me look at you," she
whispered brokenly.

Joan's face was just as Nora re-
membered it — the same fair skin
and serene brow; the same generous,
laughing mouth and eager eyes. No
one had ever had eyes like Joan's,
so blue, so unafraid, so filled with
questions.

"You — you never wrote or called,"
Joan said simply.

"I know," Nora said.

It had been easier than she ever
thought it would, stroking the bright
head half buried on her shoulder,
to tell Joan as best she could her
reasons for going away. And she had
managed to keep her words and
voice free of emotion. The heart-
break which lay beneath the sur-
face could only be sensed by Joan.
And as Nora talked, her voice grew
steadier. When she had finished
there were no more tears to run un-

checked down her cheeks.

"Why did you come here?" she
asked, gently, for the fright that was
in her daughter's eyes had not left
them.

"I — I thought maybe Michael — "
Joan began, then, with a cry, the
words tumbled out breathlessly, so
fast that Nora caught only fragments
of speech.

"Barbara and Alex — she's leaving
Alex, mother! Tonight. She said
so. She told Father and I was there.
She said if Alex wouldn't promise to
get a job, any job tonight, she was
going to get the baby and come back
home."

"But your father," Nora asked.

ORPHANS OF DIVORCE

Nora Knight EFFIE PALMER

Cyril Worthington

RICHARD GORDON

Barbara GERALDINE KAY

Joan PATRICIA PEARDON

Dick WARREN BRYAN

Photographic illustrations specially posed by
members of the cast.

"Did Barbara ask him for help?"

"That's why she came tonight,"
Joan said. "She wanted Father to
give Alex a job and Father told her
Alex had to pull himself together
first."

"Your father— said that?" There
was horror in Nora's voice. But oh!
She might have known Cyril would
not keep his promises, would not be
a real father to his children.

"And then Barbara said she was
going to leave Alex — tonight. We've
just got to do something, Mother!"

Then Nora knew.

Memories crowded upon her,

memories of Barbara and Alex who
loved each other with all the pas-
sion and tenderness of two people
whose lives were full only through
each other. The memory of the day
when shyly, proudly they had stood
in the silence of a great cathedral
and promised to remain forever to-
gether. Such love does not die
naturally, it can only be stamped
out, crushed by needless bitterness,
misunderstanding.

So Nora knew that she could no
longer live apart from the life she
had given up, could no longer deny
herself or the children she loved.

She prayed then, with Joan's hand
held tightly in hers. Prayed for her-
self and for the two young people
who had started with so much and
then, because their wealth had
melted away, were left with noth-
ing, not even understanding.

"It will be all right." Nora spoke
with firmness. She must hide any
doubt. Joan must not see any trace
of fear in her mother's eyes.

"I'm going with you," Joan said
exultantly. "We're never going to
be separated again. Oh, Mother,"
she sighed ecstatically, "it will be
wonderful!"

Wonderful! No one but Nora
could know how wonderful it would
be. Never again to have Joan give
her love to another so-called mother.
But not even Joan's own mother
could risk her future for Barbara's.

"No, darling," she said softly.
"You must go back home."

"No!" The cry of protest, so filled
with youthful bitterness, tore at
Nora.

"Joan!" Nora spoke sharply. "You
didn't know I was here when you
came. Our finding each other
doesn't change anything — anything
at all. I'm going to Barbara now.
She needs me. But that has nothing
to do with you. You must promise
me that you will go home."

Joan stood silent, her lips working
wordlessly, her face white from the
meaning of her mother's words.

"Will you promise that I can come
to see you whenever I want to?"

Against this, against her own wild
longing to see her child again, hold
her once more in her arms, there
was no refusal. But it was agreed,
when she promised, that their visits
were not to be mentioned by Joan to
her father or brother Dick. Not
yet was Nora ready to accept that
full implication of this unexpected
meeting with her daughter.

When she had put Joan into a
taxi, Nora took a second one and
gave the driver the Jones Street ad-
dress she had gotten from Joan.
During the endless ride down
through Washington Square and
over past (Continued on page 46)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

The tender romance of
Mary Margaret McBride

IT took only a moment for Mary-
Margaret McBride and Bill Gillis
to pass each other on the cam-
pus, for their eyes to meet — hers
radiantly brown and his smoky
blue — but the dizzy sweetness born
to them in that moment has haunted
their hearts ever since.

They met again that evening, at
a party. When Mary Margaret ar-
rived Bill was standing beside the
pianola. And, since everyone else
was dancing, he was the first person
to whom she was introduced.

His arms circled her. They moved
slowly with the music.

"I'm glad you came," he told her.
"Ever since I saw you today I've
been figuring how I could find you
again."

It was as if he spoke against his
will. It was as if he obeyed some in-
stinct too great to be denied.

Weeks gathered into a month.
Again, at another party, they were
dancing. In the hallway, in the
shadow, his lips rested against her
hair. "I love you," he whispered
urgently. "I love you very much,
Mary Margaret." She wasn't sur-
prised. She had read this in his eyes
during the thirty and more days
during which, for the most part, he
had been studiously casual — while
he waited for a decent time to elapse
before he declared his true feelings,
lest he scare her away, and all that
time she prayed he would throw
convention and discretion to the
winds and say everything he was
prepared to say now.

"This is forever," he told her.
"You know that, don't you?"

Her heart, shining in her eyes,
was his answer.

Things happen that way some-
times . . .

Every day they saw each other.
Fifteen minutes between classes

By Adele Whitely Fletcher

was cherished. For in the late after-
noon and early evening they were
busy, earning money to pay their
way. Often enough it was nine
o'clock and later when they met for
dinner. Mrs. Schmaltz, who owned
the delicatessen, used to watch for
the shine that came into their faces
instantly they were together, no
matter how weary they looked as
they came in. And, aware they were
very poor, she put extra meat in
their sandwiches and set a bowl of
home-made potato chips before
them whenever they ordered coffee
only.

"You mustn't!" they would pro-
test feebly.

For entertaining lis-
tening, tune in Mary
Margaret McBride, at
3:00, E.D.T., weekday
afternoons, over CBS.

"It's nothing!" She would stand
beside them, hands on hips, beam-
ing. "From a big order they were
left over. Tomorrow they'll be
stale. Eat them so they shouldn't
be thrown away.

Bill, studying engineering, told
Mary Margaret about the bridges he
wanted to build, bridges beautiful
and strong, spiderwebs of stone and
steel. "Will you be proud?" he would
ask, his eyes deepening until they
were the color of autumn in the
hills. "Will you say, as you should
'He did it for me!' "

He frightened Mary Margaret
when he talked like this. She loved
him with all her heart. She wanted
to marry him. But she had to go
on to New York and be a writer.
This had been decided when she
was a little girl.

"The Carruthers who live in that
big house on the other side of town,''
she would say to Bill, to change the
subject, "were flabbergasted when
I asked for a list of guests for my
column. They couldn't imagine how
I knew they were having a party "

Sometimes she raised her voice
to include Mrs. Schmaltz. Because
Mrs. Schmaltz looked so eager and
lonely. Besides, with Mrs. Schmalt2
included, the conversation was like-
ly to stay (Continued on page 45)

SEPTEMBER, 1941

|E WAS alone at a table in the
club where I sang. I knew when
I saw him that he was a North
American. We could always rec-
ognize them, and always we were
curious to know why they were
in Buenos Aires, what they had
come to buy or what to sell. One
thing we could almost be sure of:
they had not come to stay.

His name, they told me when I
asked, was Philip Turrell. He was
connected with a machine company.

The people of my country are
only just beginning to like the
Yankees, but the club where I sang
had always tried, without liking
them, to give them the songs, the
music, the atmosphere of South
America that would please them
because it all was what they ex-
pected. We gave them gaiety and
warmth and color, hiding the mel-
ancholy that is so deep inside us.
And they did like us, usually. They
were pleased.

But Philip Turrell did not look as
if he were enjoying himself when I
went circling' among the tables in
mv bright, shimmering, satiny cos-
tume, singing especially to the North
Americans. 1 had gone past his table
and his eyes and mine had met. He

d blue eyes, the boyish kind of
eyes and mouth that men of his
country have. Daring, but boyish, so
that you aren't angry at their dar-
ing, and can only smile. Though if

Sometimes it's not the men girls
love, but those other men who
dare to intrude on their lives
and tell lies about their pasts
that are the real heartbreakers!

you are not brave enough yet to
be flirtatious, you smile only in your
heart. I was not very brave. I had
only just begun to be a night club
girl.

I know what he was thinking. He
had been told about our cabarets,
the way they once were. His father
or his uncle had been here in Buenos
before him and they had told him
how the cabarets were then. And he
was thinking that it was true about
this cabaret and true about me, be-
cause I was the singer.

It's funny, the way I suddenly
wanted to explain to him, to this
stranger. Tell him I was not the
kind of a girl he thought I was, that
I was only a very young girl who
had heard so much about democ-
racy and freedom that I wanted
some for myself and had been dis-
owned by my family when I'd be-
come a singer.

Perhaps part of my desire was be-
cause I kn,ew that North Americans
talked with their women. Not just
complimented or amused them, but
talked real thoughts with them. I
wanted to tell him I had been in his
country and had come back unable

(fit 0> LIVES
THE MIKE

to bear my family's attitude toward
girls and had made up my mind to
go out and find life and love for
myself in my own way, as girls in
his country did. I wanted him to
laugh and say, "I know how it must
be."

There should have been laughter
enough already for me, the laughter
of carnival time, the wild shouts of
men laughing to crowd out of their
memories the hours of loneliness
they have just spent on the great
plains where they ride, solitary
horsemen, their own singing, their
only company.

I didn't think that I was in love
with him, at first sight utterly in
love. I had imagined love as a joy,
an exultation, a sudden soaring hap-
piness, not a loneliness. And then
all at once there he was, beside me,
being introduced by the manager
of the club.

"I would like to dance with you,"
he said. From his blond height he
looked down at me and seemed to
hate me because he could not resist
coming this way to me.

We danced to the tango music
that was playing. I felt a sort of
desperation now to break through
the misunderstanding that sepa-
rated heart from heart and mind
from mind. Yet I could not think
how to say what I wanted to tell
him and all he said, in careful
Spanish, was,

ii-i
* i

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROK

"I shouldn't have asked you to
dance with me. I can't tango at all."

It was a release from the strain
of silence to have him speak. I
laughed. "It is nothing, to tango. It
is just -walking in time with the
music. The music tells you what to
do."

He smiled then and the smile
and the look that was in his eyes,
holding me in his arms, made me
want to be with him where a whis-
per could be clearly understood,
where we would be our own world,
and not a tiny part of this mad hi-
larity here.

Then he was making my un-
spoken thought a reality. He was
losing us in the confusion of the
carnival, to find us again in the cool
night outside. But on the streets, it
was still carnival, the wild lawless-
ness of an Argentine holiday that
throbbed around us and into our
hearts. He fought our way to his
car and slowly at first, then faster
and faster, we drove through the

RSI

We danced to the tango music. I felt a sort of desperation now
to break through the misunderstanding that separated heart from
heart and mind from mind. But I couldn't think of how to say it.

SEPTEMBER. 194!

Sometimes it's not the men girls
love, but those other men who
dare to intrude on their lives
and tell lies about their pasts
that are the real heartbreakers!

±3*

■

S.'PT'

■■

I E WAS alone at a table in the
club where I sang. I knew when
I saw him that he was a North
American. We could always rec-
ognize them, and always we were
curious to know why they were
in Buenos Aires, what they had
come to buy or what to sell. One
thing we could almost be sure of:
they had not come to stay.

His name, they told me when I
asked, was Philip Turrell. He was
connected with a machine company.

But Philip Turrell did not look as
if he were enjoying himself when I
went circling' among the tables in
my bright, shimmering, satiny cos-
tume, singing especially to the North
Americans. I had gone past his table
and his eyes and mine had met. He
had blue eyes, the boyish kind of
eyes and mouth that men of his
country have. Baring, but boyish, so
that you aren't angry at their dar-
ing, and can only smile. Though if

you are not brave enough yet to
be flirtatious, you smile only in your
heart. I was not very brave. I had
only just begun to be a night club
girl.

Perhaps part of my desire was be-
cause I knew that North Americans
talked with their women. Not just
complimented or amused them, but
talked real thoughts with them. I
wanted to tell him I had been in his
country and had come back unable

LIVES
I MIKE

"I would like to dance with you,'
he said. From his blond height he
looked down at me and seemed to
hate me because he could not resist
coming this way to me.

We danced to the tango music
that was playing. I felt a sort of
desperation now to break through
the misunderstanding that sepa-
rated heart from heart and mind
from mind. Yet I could not thin*
how to say what I wanted to tel
him and all he said, in careful
Spanish, was,

RADIO AND TELEVISION M>»"0"

■fi

I shouldn't have asked you to

dance with me. I can't tango at all."

« was a release from the strain

Lhftt0 have him sPeak- i

a>*hed. "It is nothing, to tango. It

mu^Th klng in time with the
music. The music tells you what to

anfthff '? then and the smile
iti0^^^ ^ his eyes,
wan tn u m hls arms' made me
Per coni/ ulth him where a whis-
where wf 6 Clearly understood,
and not atW°Uld be our °wn world,
larity here *"* °f this mad hi"

sP°ken th* ^as making my un-
lo4 us Ugh! a reality- He was
carnival t fi conf usion of the

night ou'tsiH t US agam in the coo!
*as still ,.= ■ ut on the streets, it
"ess of an AIVa1' the wM lawless-
ihro°bed a„ Argenti«e holiday that
hea"s. RwUnd us and into our
0ar at>d sL i ght our way to his
*"" fastS y at first- then faster
• we drove through the

**>■ 194,

We danced to the tango music. I felt a sort of desperation now
to break through the misunderstanding that separated heart from
heart and mind from mind. But I couldn t think of how to soy it.

crowds to the wide boulevards and
along toward the lonely plains at
the end of the boulevards. And
there, at the edge of the endless
plains, we could talk.

I COULDN'T stand that place any
longer," he said. "I suppose I'm
crazy. You were singing there be-
cause you wanted to, but I couldn't
sit there watching you any longer —
or go away without you, either," he
added in his deep voice. His hands
hadn't touched me, yet I felt drawn
closer to him than I had been by
the circle of his arm when we had
danced together.

I felt impelled to tell him about
myself.

"My family sent me away when
I became a singer. Nice girls aren't
supposed to do anything but wait
until someone suitable proposes
marriage. I'm living with two aunts
who were very poor until I went to
live with them and brought my
salary to them. They don't like my
singing either, but they like the
money it earns for me."

His lips answered me. Not with
any words, but with a kiss, swift,
unrestrained. The haunting sweet-
ness of the embrace clung to us after
we had parted. There was nothing
to say that the silent beauty of the
moment wasn't telling us more elo-
quently. An edge of the South wind
that the trees are afraid of, cut
sharply across the car and I shiv-
ered.

"You're cold," he said, as though
he were to blame. His arm reached
to fold my thin shawl more tightly
around my shoulders. But he for-
got why he had reached out to me
and his arm pressed me to him so
I could feel the pulse of his heart.

It seemed to loose a flood tide of
emotion that had been dammed up
within us. Perhaps it was the hour
of carnival and the shock of finding
each other so unexpectedly. My
temples throbbed from his near-
ness and the tones of his voice
seemed to play upon my feelings
like a magic bow touching violin
strings.

'[ love you," he whispered. "I
don't know why. I just know I do.
The world's been whirling ever
since I saw you tonight, whirling
faster and faster. But now it has
stopped and it is standing still."

He kissed me a second time, and
I felt as though we had been
wrapped up in the magic silver of
the moonlight that was bathing the
plains.

Then he said, almost as if he were
musing, "If you married me you
wouldn't have to go back there and
ling anymore."

I might have suspected words so

impulsive from one trained to be
poised and balanced and shrewd.
But there was nothing in this magi-
cal hour for me but truth and love
and goodness.

He said, as my arms answered the
clasp of his arms,

"We can be married at sea."

"At sea?" I said, and surprise was
in my voice.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sailing for
home tomorrow. That's how close
I came to missing you. Or we can
be married before we sail."

I shook my head. "No. I would like
to be married far out on the ocean."

"If we married, would it be be-
cause you love me or because you
love adventure?"

There was true anxiety in his
words.

"Because I love you," I said and
there were no small doubts to look
over the edge of my mind, to say to
me, "Because it's carnival and you
both are mad."

He said, "Kiss me once more and
we will drive to your father's house
and tell him."

In that moment, the magic of our
midnight dissolved and we were
two people again in a world of
reality.

"No," I said, "not there. They
have forbidden me to go there. But
when we come back to them some
time, married, they will forgive me.
But not tonight. Tonight you must
take me to my aunts' home. Tomor-
row I will leave a note for them
and go away with you. That will be
better than telling them tonight. I
want my wedding day happy."

My aunts' house was so little it
seemed almost a plaything. "It's
hardly bigger than its own tree,"
Philip laughed and when we found
my aunts were not home, we started
pretending that the house was ours
and went around from room to room
looking it over, like old married
people returning after a long ab-
sence.

"My aunts must be at Grand-
father's," I remarked, looking final-
ly into my room. "They'd be afraid
to go anywhere else on a carnival
night." I laughed.

He drew me into his arms. I was
calm now. It was he who was not,

closing his arms around me as if
they were gates to shut us away
from all the world outside our own
two selves. He was saying poetic,
beautiful things about me, about his
love for me, words that were like
flowers strewn about us, like clouds
that would hide us. A tenderness
that filled my heart to breaking
welled up in me because he thought
there need be words to lend beauty
to our love. My room was beautiful
then, though I had always hated it
for its smallness and ugly furniture
and bare walls.

Never had I known my aunts to
be so late and when they drove up
in Grandfather's car, I could hear
their voices breathless in excitement
over their adventure. They stood
outside a moment chattering and
giggling.

"Philip," I whispered, "you must
go. I'd rather have you go without
seeing them. There would only be
a scene and it's so beautiful now."

He seemed to know what I was
trying to say but before he would go
he told me over and over where we
would meet the next day, describing
every step of the way, even setting
my watch exactly right with his
watch, so that there would not be
a second of waiting for him to en-
dure in the morning when we would
be together again.

Far earlier the next day than
there was any need I was on a bus
bound for the hotel where I was
going to wait for Philip's call. Philip
and I had agreed that I should go to
the rooms of Brenda Lamont, an
American singer who had a suite
there. Then, when everything was
ready, he could call and come and
get me and no one would know.

Brenda was still sleeping from
the carnival night, but when I made
her understand she came wide
awake.

"Darling, how wonderful!" she
exclaimed. She got up and rushed
about, dressing to go to the ship
with us, all the time talking about
the United States. I only half heard
what she said, listening a little to
her and a great deal for the ringing
of the telephone.

It was not time yet for Philip to
call. But surely he would know I
would be at Brenda's early. Surely
he would not wait until the last
minute to call. He would be as im-
patient as I. At first I was not fright-
ened because he did not call. I was
only confused. Brenda laughed at
me when I started pacing the room.
But the clock hands sped on, mock-
ing me. Finally there was only half
an hour lacking of sailing time.
Then twenty minutes. Five more
minutes dragged past, each a cen-
tury long.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

"It's not too late yet," Brenda
said. Then, "We will call the steam-
ship office and see what caused the
delay."

The stillness of stone in my voice
stopped her efforts to hide the truth
from me.

"It is useless — "

For a moment I sat, the cold of a
glacier freezing me from any feeling
at all. Then the memory of last
night pulsed through me. All in
one continuous motion I was up,
slipping on the travel coat I had
worn, snatching up my hat and
gloves.

"Some kind of harm has happened
to him," I cried.

I flew out into the street and into
a cab or bus, I cannot remember
which. I knew the name of Philip's
company and found the office. I
remember the office door opening as
I ran toward it, hat still in my hand,
hair windblown. A manager's name
was lettered on the door. Robert
Davis. I asked to see him at once.

The attendant looked embar-
rassed. I felt embarrassment elec-
trify and silence the entire office.
They thought me an inamorata of
his and wondered what they should
do. While I stood, the tension
within me gathering into a sharp,
painful knot, he came to his door.
He stood there, tall, sinewy, dark,
with strong features and a forbid-
ding glare. Neither of us spoke.
Dislike and distrust flared between
us so strongly as to be almost a
physical exchange. With an abrupt
gesture, he stepped aside and mo-
tioned me into his office. The door
slammed shut and he swerved to face
me, indicating with a contemptu-
ous gesture a chair for me to sit in.

PHILIP," I cried, "Philip Turrell.
He was to sail today, but some-
thing must have happened to him."

The man almost smiled, but it was
too bitter a twist of lips to be really
called a smile.

"Are you Trinita Alvarez?" he
sneered.

"Yes," I answered in a sharp gasp.
Philip must have told him of me,
must have been here in this room
this morning, alive and unharmed.

"I thought so," Robert Davis said
calmly. "You are very young. You
are very beautiful. Yes, it is just as
I thought. Last night the young man
lost his head. But only for a night.
This morning he has sailed accord-
ing to schedule."

"You are lying," I cried out in
fury. "Something has happened
to him and you are hiding it from
me, saying he has gone."

He said, the dark blood of anger
rising in his face,

"I owed it to the firm which em-

The bitterness of his voice was like a knife cutting through me. "I
told him that you throw yourself at any North American," he said.

ploys us both to tell Philip Turrell
what a cabaret girl is, here in
Buenos, and to tell him in particu-
lar about his Trinita — whom he said
he was going to marry."

The bitterness of his voice was a
knife blade cutting through me
sharp and swift.

"I told him you are a little fire-
brand, disowned by your family,
whose only hope of escape from
the affairs you are involved in, is
a foreign marriage, quickly. I told
him that you throw yourself at any
North American, paying any price
that may be asked, for the hope of
marriage and escape, but that al-
ways you have been discovered in
time. I told him that the whole city

knows this and that always some-
one tells."

"Everything you told him is a
lie!"

He shrugged.

"Probably it is not," he said. "It
is probably all true. If it is not, yet,
it will be in time. You cabaret
singers are all alike. It is no mar-
riage for him. It would ruin him
here and discredit the company he
represents. He is the best young
man we have had in years. The
company needs him and cannot af-
ford to lose him if I can save him.
This time I have saved him!"

He opened the door and stood by
it waiting for me to go and admit
my defeat. (Continued on page 70)

SEPTEMBER, 1941

Tune in
22

Pepper

YoMno'. Family weekdays at 11:15 A.M.. E.D.T.. over the NBC-Red network, sponsored by P & G Naphtha

rwfreb

s roMta/

IN LIVING PORTRAITS

Now — in these special photographs see more of your favorite people just as they really are.
Meet Peggy, Father and Mother Young, scatterbrained Edie and handsome Carter Trent

PEGGY YOUNG, left, is eighteen years old. She
has a smile like sunlight, eyes of warm, living
blue, flowing blonde hair. You look at Peggy
and you know she loves life. You know she
is getting a kick out of being young and in love.
Now that Carter Trent has come into her life,
even Pepper's exasperating teasing no longer
bothers her. She has had lots of boy friends. A
girl like Peggy would. But Carter is the first
serious love of her life. She met Carter, a young
Private, at an Army dance. She wasn't attracted
to him at first, but slowly grew to love him.
They became engaged. Peggy has the approval
of her family, who like Carter, but the big
problem is whether Carter's family will approve
of her. She's on her way to meet the wealthy
Trent family now, and everything in her life
hinges on their liking her. Peggy has no pre-
tensions, she is essentially a simple girl, adores
her father, wants to be like her mother. Carter
will make a perfect husband, if things go well.
(Played by Betty Wragge)

I
I

CARTER TRENT (above) is the only son of
the very socially prominent Mr. and Mrs. Trent
of Chicago. Mr. Trent wanted his son to go into
business, but Carter joined the Army and was
stationed at Camp Elmwood, where he met
Peggy and fell in love with her at first sight.
Carter's parents are the domineering kind and
expect him to marry a girl in his own social
set. The trouble ahead with his family will be
a really difficult test of Carter's love for Peggy.
(Played by James Krieger)

EDIE GRAY (left) is Peggy Young's best
friend. She is altogether unpredictable, an in-
curable romantic, can't keep a secret and is
forever in other people's business. Edie is always
getting Peggy into trouble. On two occasions,
the girls almost lost their lives as a result of one
of Edie's great but unworkable ideas. But with
all her faults, Edie is loyal to Peggy, loves
the Young family, and is a completely sweet,
if slightly fantastic, friend and companion.
(Played by Jean Sotbern)

NBC photos by Jackson & Desfor

Mr^-g^-gLfl^frg^g

^^V^^^^V:^^^^

MARY YOUNG S whole life is devoted to her husband and children. Without her the Young family
could not surv.ve She instinctively knows what is right for Sam, Peggy and Pepper. In her home, all of
them are equal, all of them are fed by her love and understanding. Mrs. Young seldom thinks of herself.
When she unexpectedly inherited $20,000, she insisted that her husband take it for business purposes. When
Sam lost h,s home and business and the Youngs were forced to move to a poorer section of town, Mrs.
Young took that calmly and set up a "home bakery" of her own in order to keep the family going. Not only
do the members of Mrs. Young s own family seek her help, but the poor and downtrodden gravitate toward
her. She once befr.endcd an escaped convict, shielding him against the wrath of the town when he was accused
Of stealing money from her own husband! Mrs. Young likes Peggy's new boy friend, Carter Trent, and is
domg all she can to foster the romance and fix things so that Carter's family will consent to their marriage.

(Played by Marion Barney)

SAMUEL YOUNG is a typical American, honest, practical, tolerant. When you first met him, he owned his
own home in Elmwood and had a steady job. He resigned this job, mortgaged his home, opened a factory
with Curtis Bradley, and successfully ran for Mayor against Pete Nickerson, a crooked politician. Then a
flood destroyed the Bradley-Young plant. Curt Bradley was badly hurt, his mind was impaired and he dis-
appeared. Poverty came to the Youngs, until Pete Nickerson, dying, turned his estate over to Sam to handle,
rewarding him for this trust with property. Sam started a real estate business with the help of his son,
Pepper, and when Curt Bradley returned, well but destitute, Sam magnanimously took him into the new
business. They built tourist camps and a hotel on the property, tried to get backing for their business, but deal
after deal fell through. Now things Look bad for Sam, but his courage and honesty should see him through.

(Played by Thomas Chalmers)

Next month see beautiful photographs of Popper Yonng. Mr. Bradley. Biff. Linda Benton and HatHe

I WANT you to do nothing at all
for at least two weeks," Dr. Dun-
ham had told her. "Just stay in
bed and let yourself be waited on."
He needn't have been so positive
in his instructions, Ann thought.
There was nothing she wanted to do
but stay in bed.

Had she lost only the baby she
had been carrying in her body? She
felt as if she had lost much more —
her ambition, her hope for the fu-
ture, her soul. People came and
went around her — Jerry, as soon as
he returned from the Sanitarium in
the evenings, the last thing before
he left in the morning; Penny with
cups of broth, orange juice, junket;
Bun in the afternoons, after school
— but she existed in a vacuum, be-
hind glass walls. She could speak to
them, and they to her, but all the
words they used were meaningless.
Then, one morning, she had no
means of knowing how long after
she first became ill, she felt a com-
pulsion to get up. It was toward
noon; Dr. Dunham had paid his visit
and left the room. She did not know
why, but there was a necessity to
put aside the covers and swing her
feet to the floor and stand, unsteadi-
ly; move slowly to the door, open it.

The hallway was empty, but she
heard voices coming from the living
room. One was Lawrence Dunham's,
one Jerry's. She felt no surprise at
the discovery that he had not gone
to his office at the Sanitarium as
usual. He was home, and she had
been pulled from her bed, for some
reason that concerned them both.

Listening, she heard Jerry say in
a stricken voice, "Never?"

Dunham replied, "One doesn'J say
never in these cases, Malone. You
know that. But — well, it won't be
safe for a long time."

In the silence, Ann could almost
see Jerry's face. He would hate to

Thoughts which are never shared,
resentments never expressed —
are these the things that break
up a marriage? Read this deeply
human drama of a doctor's love

show emotion; he would fight it back
like an enemy. He said, "We mustn't
tell her. She wanted a baby so
badly."

"I don't think that's wise — "

"It's essential!" Jerry interrupted
savagely. "Not until she's well again.
I don't mean physically. I mean
in her mind — "

Silently, she crept back to bed and
pulled the covers up around her
chin, very neatly. They could tell
her or not, just as they pleased. She
knew anyway. She'd known, ex-
cept for hearing it said in so many
words, all along. And it was right,
of course. Children shouldn't come
to a marriage that had suddenly be-
gun to crumble, like a house inse-
curely built.

It was ridiculous of Jerry to say
her mind wasn't well. It saw things

more clearly than ever in all her life
— now that other people couldn't get
at it. Now that she was enclosed in
her glass shell, cool and remote and
comfortable.

She was quite able to assess what
had happened and fix the blame —
not emotionally, but judiciously,
calmly. And a little bit of the fault
was hers, but most of it was Jerry's.
It was Jerry who had struck the first
blow at their marriage by accepting
a partnership in Dr. Dunham's Sani-
tarium, against her wishes. Her
small fault had been in not insisting
more strongly that he refuse the
offer. Then Jerry had — yes, deserted
her, spiritually, just when she
needed him most. He had let her
feel he was ashamed of her, didn't
want her with him on that .week-
end party on Long Island.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

She had thought he would look
guilty. Instead, his face only
hardened. "What of it?" he said.

Fictionized from the radio serial heard
daily at 2 P.M.. E.D.T., over CBS Ire-
broadcast at 3:75 P.M., Pacific Time) and
sponsored by Post Toasties. Photos posed
by Elizabeth Reller as Ann, Alan Bunce
as Dr. Ma/one, Helene Dumas as Veronica.

She did not avoid thinking of
Veronica Farrell, who had gone to
the party with Jerry, who was so
poised and well groomed and sure
of her power over men. That was
what had hurt the most — that Jerry
hadn't told her Veronica would be
there until after she herself had
decided not to go.

And later, Jerry had deserted her
physically as well as spiritually. She
had wanted him home for Christ-
mas; he had promised he would
come back from his flying trip to
Georgia to operate on J. H. Griffin.
Instead, he'd failed her. On Christ-
mas Eve, when she tried to reach
him by telephone, he'd been out in
a boat with Veronica. It was, in-

SEPTEMBER, 1941

escapably, his fault that in her shock
and disappointment she had slipped
and fallen and so had lost her baby.

She fell asleep after a minute, and
when she woke, much later, Penny
said delightedly that she was really
getting well now, she'd be able to
get up soon. The glass walls were
dissolving, and against her will she
was losing their sanctuary and being
thrust out into the world again,
where people could talk to her and
confuse her thinking. All the beau-
tiful clarity faded away, and she was
left obscurely hurt and unable to
fix the blame.

She had to admit now that Jerry
hadn't known Veronica was in
Georgia when he answered old Grif-

fin's summons, nor had he known
that a storm would come up that
afternoon when he and Veronica
took a sail to Pirate Island while
his patient was sleeping. It had
been an accident, her falling as she
left the telephone, and since then
Jerry had gone through an agony
as great as hers. She could not doubt
this when, inhabiting his world once
more, she looked at his face and
saw its weariness.

All her precise indictments of
him were forgotten, buried under
returning sanity. But although they
were buried, they were still there,
unseen and unnoticed, dormant, like
scar tissue under a healed wound,
needing only new aggravation to

I WANT you to do nothing at all
for at least two weeks," Dr. Dun-
ham had told her. "Just stay in
bed and let yourself be waited on."

He needn't have been so positive
in his instructions, Ann thought.
There was nothing she wanted to do
but stay in bed.

Listening, she heard Jerry say in
a stricken voice, "Never?"

Dunham replied, "One doesn't say
never in these cases, Malone. You
know that. But— well, it won't be
safe for a long time."

In the silence, Ann could almost
see Jerry's face. He would hate to

Thoughts which are never shared,
resentments never expressed —
are these the things that break
up a marriage? Read this deeply
human drama of a doctor's love

show emotion; he would fight it back
like an enemy. He said, "We mustn't
tell her. She wanted a baby so
badly."

"I don't think that's wise — "

"It's essential!" Jerry interrupted
savagely. "Not until she's well again.
I don't mean physically. I mean
in her mind — "

It was ridiculous of Jerry to say
her mind wasn't well. It saw things

more clearly than ever in all her life
— now that other people couldn't get
at it. Now that she was enclosed in
her glass shell, cool and remote and
comfortable.

She was quite able to assess what
had happened and fix the blame-
not emotionally, but judiciously,
calmly. And a little bit of the fault
was hers, but most of it was Jerry's.
It was Jerry who had struck the first
blow at their marriage by accepting
a partnership in Dr. Dunham's Sani-
tarium, against her wishes. Her
small fault had been in not insisting
more strongly that he refuse the
offer. Then Jerry had — yes, deserted
her, spiritually, just when she
needed him most. He had let _ her
feel he was ashamed of her, didnt
want her with him on that .week-
end party on Long Island.

RADIO AND TELEVISION Mffl»0B

She did not avoid thinking of
veronica Farrell, who had gone to
the party with Jerry, who was so
P01sed and well groomed and sure

of her

Power over men. That was

bH V hurt the most— that Jerry
aan t told her Veronica would be

then

fe until after she herself had

decided

not to go

Phv iater' Jerry had deserted her
had* as wel1 as spiritually. She
«ias. h ted him home for Christ-
com' £e had Promised he would

Georeb ♦ fr0m his flyinS triP to
Instep u° °Perate on J. H. Griffin.
mas e e d failed her. On Christ-
ian, bJe' when she tried to reach
a boat ephone> he'd been out in
With Veronica. It was, in-

■ 1941

escapably, his fault that in her shock
and disappointment she had slipped
and fallen and so had lost her baby.

She fell asleep after a minute, and
when she woke, much later, Penny
said delightedly that she was really
getting well now, she'd be able to
get up soon. The glass walls were
dissolving, and against her will she
was losing their sanctuary and being
thrust out into the world again
where people could talk to her and
confuse her thinking. All the beau-
tiful clarity faded away, and she was
left obscurely hurt and unable to
fix the blame.

She had to admit now that Jerry
hadn't known Veronica was in
Georgia when he answered old Grit-

Fictionhed from the radio serial heard
daily at 2 P.M., E.D.T., over CBS (re-
broadcast at 3:1 5 P.M., Pacific Time) and
sponsored by Post Toasties. Photos posed
by Elizabeth Keller as Ann, Alan Bunce
as Dr. Malone. Helene Dumas as Veronica.

Jerry had just come in when the
telephone rang. It was Veronica.

bring them into raging life.

When, in February, she had been
up for two weeks and Jerry told her
painfully that Dunham said she
could not have another child, she
was able to answer that she knew,
and give him comfort which she
drew from some secret well of
strength within herself.

"The important thing is that we
have each other, isn't it?" Jerry
asked eagerly, as if begging for con-
firmation, and she nodded, smiling.

"Yes, Jerry dear."

"Maybe," he said tentatively, "if
you'd like to adopt a baby? . . ."
Dunham had suggested this; he him-
self hoped Ann would consider the
proposal, at least, and he was not
prepared for her harsh, sudden cry:

"No! No, Jerry! It would re-
mind me — "

She stopped, biting her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But I'd
rather not. Maybe later . . ."

Quickly, almost fearfully, they
turned their thoughts and speech
from the subject, and did not again
mention it. Nor did either of them
talk of the circumstances surround-
ing that tragic Christmas Eve.

In spite of her silence, in spite of
the way their life together had re-
turned to the pattern of normality,
Jerry knew that something had
changed. An expression in Ann's
eyes when she did not know he was
watching her, a fleeting tone in her
voice, the omission of a laugh where
in the old days she would have
sparkled with merriment — these

were the clues that told him how
events had put their mark upon her.
At first he tried to tell himself this
alteration was maturity — tried des-
perately to believe in this easy ex-
planation. But there was a taint of
resentment in her manner that could
have no proper place in maturity.
She never asked him, now, about
his work at the Sanitarium, showed
none of the interest in it she had had
when he was doing clinical work at
Franklin Hospital. Her avoidance
of the topic was tacit proof of what
he already knew — that she had no
sympathy with medicine carried on
for the sake of money, did not want
to hear of rich people's ailments, and
believed he was wasting his time.

He would not admit her Tightness,
and her attitude galled him, rubbing
his nerves into a rawness he could
not always conceal. Then there
were brief, sharp passages of acid
anger between them, quickly smoth-
ered if Penny or particularly Bun
were within hearing. It was not in
Bun's adolescent scheme of life that
these two people he loved so much,
his foster parents, should torture
themselves and each other with con-
flict, and Jerry would have died
rather than let the boy know any-
thing was wrong.

Late in March Veronica Farrell
returned from the South.

She came unexpectedly into Jer-
ry's office one afternoon, smoothly
tanned, looking vital and alert in

"Jerry. Jerry, come quickly. When
I got home I found Jim here— dead."

contrast to the late-spring weariness
of New Yorkers. She was again
staying with Jessie Hughes, she an-
nounced; later she would go to an
apartment hotel until June. Her
aimless existence did not seem to
embarrass her. She accepted it as
right and just that she need do noth-
ing but cater to her own whims, and
when she asked him to take her
somewhere for tea Jerry found him-
self unable to refuse.

For a time, after they had seated
themselves in one corner of a lux-
urious hotel lounge, Veronica talked
lightly of herself, her stay in
Georgia, the play she had seen the
night before. But abruptly she
dropped her pose. She said quietly,
"Jessie told me about Ann. It must
have happened the night we were
caught in the storm."

"Yes," he told her. "It did."

"Jerry — " She looked directly at
him, and suddenly all traces of the
sophisticated, self-assured woman
were gone. "Jerry, I might as well
speak plainly. I've — rather pursued
you. Asking Jim Griffin to call you
to Georgia, for instance. He wanted
to have Lawrence. I persuaded him
you were the better man for him."
She turned her head away. "Don't
look so shocked. It's hard enough
as it is to tell you this — even though
you must have guessed it already."

"I don't understand why you are
telling me."

"No?" She smiled a little. "That's
because you're modest. It seems, my
dear Dr. Malone, that what started
out as an entertaining flirtation has
unaccountably turned into deadly
earnest — as far as I'm concerned.
I'm afraid I'm in love with you."

She might, Jerry thought amazed-
ly, have been saying something as
trivial as, "I'm going across the
street to buy a pair of gloves."

"And so naturally," she was con-
tinuing, "I don't want to hurt you.
I'm being self-sacrificing, if you can
believe it. You love your wife, don't
you, Jerry?"

"Very much," he said — curtly, be-
cause he was still having difficulty
persuading himself that all this was
reality and not a dream.

"Yes, I thought so. And the fact
that you were with me when — when
she fell — has already made things
a bit difficult, hasn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly.

She said very softly, "I don't want
things to be difficult for you, Jerry.
I've told myself not to be a fool — to
go out after what I want and the
devil take anyone who gets in my
way. But — somehow — I can't. That's
what I had to tell you today. If ever
you and Ann fall out of love — well,
then it will be different. But at the
moment — " (Continued on page 73)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHJROH

Qtifc

Not love alone, but many other qualities as
well, must go into making a truly perfect
marriage, says radio's singing comedienne,
whose own experience proves her theories

tlfcjXA/VyJLb

I'VE had as much of this as I can
stand! My marriage is impossible!
I'm through!"

The woman who has never said
that to herself is either too good to
be true or else she just isn't telling
the truth. We all get fed up with
marriage, each for our own rea-
sons. Because marriage isn't easy. It
isn't all hearts and flowers and
moonlight and dancing. It calls for
a lot of patience, understanding,
tolerance, and applied psychology
as well as a deep and genuine love.
It takes a lot of hard work to make
it a success. And, if it is not a suc-
cess, you will probably find that
nothing else is a success either. Your
health, your friends, your work,
your finances, all suffer.

I know this because it happened
to me. I know it does not have to
be that way because I learned how
to change it.

You listen to me on the radio,
singing the songs of the "Gay Nine-
ties" with their comico-sweetness.

In slacks and sweater, Beatrice
always finds time away from her
career to be a housewife as well.

By BEATRICE KAY

(As told to Annemarie Ewing)

Listen to Beatrice Kay sing on the
Gay Nineties, Mondays on CBS.

You see pictures of me in glamorous
costumes of the period, dripping
with sequins and towering with os-
trich plumes. But you may not know
that, in private life, I am Mrs. Syl-
van Green, who, when she is not
singing on the radio, leads a quiet
life in the little town of Closter, New
Jersey. There Mrs. Green is mistress
of a charming little house that used
to be an antique shop. She has three
beautiful Persian cats. She has an
acre full of yard — big enough that
she was able to get all her Christ-
mas decorations out of it this past
year. It was the happiest Christ-
mas of her life.

The Beatrice Kay you hear on the
radio would not be able to do her

work well — and maybe not at all —
if it were not that the Mrs. Sylvan
Green who is her other self, is so
happily married. Beatrice Kay gives
a lot of credit to Mrs. Sylvan Green
— and to Mr. Sylvan Green, too! —
Together they have achieved a suc-
cessful marriage and they're proud
of it.

It didn't start out well at all. In
fact, my husband-to-be had only
one idea in mind when he first saw
me. That idea was to get me fired!

He was in charge of the entertain-
ment at a small club in New York
and, one day, when he returned
from a vacation, he found that the
owner of the place had hired me as
a singer. Naturally, he resented
having new entertainment chosen
in his absence. He was supposed to
do the hiring and firing around
there! He was prepared to think
I was terrible and say so.

He sat down at the piano to play
for me. It was the first time I had
ever sung (Continued on page 67)

Away from radio, she's Mrs. Sylvan
Green, mistress of a charming house
that used to be an antique shop.

Charming Barbara Ed-
wards is proud of her
black walnut coffee
table and the very
old lustre pitcher.

wmmmm^m

This is the masculine bedroom furni-
ture which came along with Ralph from
his bachelor days, as did the clock.

/FyOl/MERE

You'd be the bride of radio's
new and handsome quiz star
and you'd have inherited a
home furnished by bachelors

By JUDY ASHLEY

Photos made especially for Radio Mirror by NBC

THE apartment Ralph Edwards lives
in is a half-man, half-woman affair
with respect to furniture. The rea-
son is that it was originally occupied
by three bachelor announcers — Mel
Allen, Andre Baruch, and Ralph. Then
Mel Allen brought his mother and
father to New York and moved out.
Andre married singer Bea Wain and
moved out. Now Ralph Edwards lives
there with his bride of a year and a
half.

Some of the plain masculine furni-
ture that the boys bought still remains.
But Barbara Edwards has eased out
most of it and substituted her own
daintier, more feminine pieces. Many
of these are genuine antiques — some
of them family heirlooms, some pieces
she has picked up in shops in upper
New York State and Connecticut.

You can note the difference soon
after you step into the house. Nothing
masculine (Continued on page 61)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROH

Mrs. 1&IPH &MRDS

This is the masculine half of
the sitting room. Left, Barbara
knits in a home-made rocker in
the feminine half of the room.

Barbara prepares breakfast for
Ralph. She possesses an elec-
tric juicer, but she prefers
the old fashioned method. Be-
low, the Edwardses play Chi-
nese checkers between shows,
on trains, planes and busses.

Charming Barbara Ed-
wards is proud of her
black walnut coffee
table and the very
old lustre pitcher.

This is the masculine bedroom fumi
ture which came along with Ralph froJ
his bachelor days, as did the clock

odded^Tl T,6 Bar^°ra, put her fem!nine *•&* *> '♦ o"d
W«d a colorful rug. handsome break front and a few lamp

You'd be the bride of radio's
new and handsome quix star
and you'd have inherited a
home furnished by bachelors

JUDY ASHLEY

Photos made especially for Radio Mirror bt/ NBC

THE apartment Ralph Edwards lives
in is a half -man, half-woman affair
with respect to furniture. The rea-
son is that it was originally occupied
by three bachelor announcers — Mel
Allen, Andre Baruch, and Ralph. Then
Mel Allen brought his mother and
father to New York and moved out.
Andre married singer Bea Wain and
moved out. Now Ralph Edwards lives
there with his bride of a year and a
half.

Some of the plain masculine furni-
ture that the boys bought still remains.
But Barbara Edwards has eased out
most of it and substituted her own

daintier, more feminine pieces.

Many

of these are genuine antiques— some
of them family heirlooms, some pie«»
she has picked up in shops in uppe'
New York State and Connecticut.

You can note the difference soon
after you step into the house. Nothing
masculine (Continued on pa9e

BADIO AND TELEVISION

MIB»°"

This is the masculine half of
the sitting room. Left, Barbara
knits in a home-made rocker in
the feminine half of the room.

Singing songs is Joan's career,
but writing them is her hobby —
here's proof that it's a good one.

Moderately

Girl About Town

Charming and talented Joan Edwards composes
her own hit song for her own broadcasts and
Radio Mirror presents it here — free to its readers!

Words and Music by
JOAN EDWARDS

^♦l-J H J'lbp p ^ JjJ hp p J> Jtfgp^

I'm just a Girl a-bout town Look-ine- for some- one to

just a Girl a-bout town

Look-in^ for some- one to love

j) J jN'jtJyji^Jij

tr — az

Where is the man for a Girl A-bool Town

Im.

just a

F-f

FtPf

f t5

F?f

f^ff

im-

;J) ■ J)

:£

»' g

i p i jLffl^

-o-

dream-er of dreams None of those dreams come true

And

V *

so a

'si'%WU

±i

Ji^lJ. JjJ-l

shin-in' sobright,pass-in me by, Whats wrong with me Why must I be a - lone, That's why_

;##£#

£i

"*1

• &

» <7

'J'J J)|tp pi' JU 1^ I I Jj,J^

to the moon up a - bove Lawdhow it gets — me down

(3X

Kindness was something Ca-
sino had never known until
she met Joe Meade, who
said, "There's lots of folks
in the world that need a new
chance." Read radio's tend-
er story of gallant people

Flctionized from the popular serial of the same name, heard on
NBC's Red network, Monday through Friday, at 5:00 P.M.. E.D.T.,
sponsored by Certo and Sure-Jell. Photographs posed by Sommie
Hill as Casino. Ed Latimer as Joe and Vincent Donehue as Neil.

JOE MEADE found her in a dark
alleyway on the San Francisco
waterfront. He had followed the
sound of her sobs until he almost
stumbled over her, crouched next to
an ash can. At his touch she started,
terrified, to her feet, and tried to run
away. He had almost to drag her
with him to an all-night lunch
wagon; even then she came, it
seemed, because she was afraid of
attracting attention by making a
scene.

When they came into the light of
the lunch wagon she quieted a little.
There was something about Joe
Meade that inspired confidence. In
his square, blunt-featured, middle-
aged face there was gentleness, and
his voice was low and soothing.

She ate ravenously. He guessed
her age twenty-four, and was sur-
prised when she told him sullenly
that she was seventeen. Yet, he
realized on looking more closely,
there was a childlike quality to the
ironic droop of her pale lips. She
would have been so beautiful, he
thought, with a little more flesh on
the delicate structure of her face,
with some color in her skin and
some life in the thick hair that was
dulled now with fog and dirt. And

dressed in something prettier than
her threadbare skirt, sweater, and
soiled man's lumberjack.

Her name, she said, was Casino.

"Casino what?" he asked.

"Just Casino," she answered stub-
bornly.

"Where do you live?"

"Nowhere. Around." She set
down her coffee cup and glared at
the counterman. "Seems to me that
fellow's stickin' his nose pretty far
into what we're sayin'."

"I ain't even listenin'!" the
counterman said defensively, and
moved with dignity out of earshot.

"But how about your folks?" Joe
asked. "Where are they?"

"I ain't got no folks!" she said
with such vehemence that he
jumped. "Get that straight. None
at all!"

"All right, all right," he pacified
her. "I was just askin'." He sat
quietly, puffing on his pipe, until
she had nearly finished the meal.
Then he suggested, "How'd you like
to come with me? I live up in the
mountains, in a town called New
Chance. Used to be a minin' town.
I grew up there. Then I went away,
and while I was gone the mines shut
down and everybody moved out. I

come back a few months ago — me
and some other folks — and there
wasn't anybody there. But we
stayed. We're goin' to make New
Chance hum again. We've planted
some crops and started a pottery.
If you'd like to come along we can
fix up a house for you to live in, and
give you some work to do."

There was an undercurrent of ex-
citement in his voice when he spoke
of New Chance. It made her look
at him curiously. Then her interest
faded and she said with instinctive
suspicion:

"What you tryin' to hand me,
Mister? What you want out of it?"

"Nothin'. Lots of people in this
world need a new chance. And New
Chance needs people, to help build
it again."

"Sounds like a dump," she said
laconically. The sliding door of the
lunch wagon swung open with a
sharp rasp, and she stiffened in ter-
ror, Joe noticed, before she saw that
it was only a shabbily dressed man
who went to the far end of the coun-
ter without glancing at them.

"What you afraid of, Casino?" he
asked softly.

"Nothin'!" Her voice was shrill.
"I ain't afraid o' nothin' at all!"

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

HOME of tie 8WE

She would have been beautiful, Joe thought, but
now her lips were sullen, her eyes were cynical.

Joe smiled tolerantly. "All right.
You were just actin' a little jumpy.
How about comin' to New Chance?"

For a moment she considered him
warily. Finally she shrugged.
"Okay, why not?" she sighed. "I'll
give it a whirl."

So to the small group of people
Joe Meade had brought to New
Chance one more was added . . . one
small, underfed girl who appeared

SEPTEMBER, 1941

to trust no one but Joe Meade, and
not always even him.

The total population of New
Chance just then consisted, besides
Joe .and Casino, of Neil and Lois
Davisson, Doc Gordon, and Pat and
Terence Mulvaney. Not a large
crew to rebuild a town; but, as Joe
said, one with all the goodness of
purpose and willingness to work
that it needed. Neil and Lois had

come with Joe at the very first: he
had picked them up in the freight
train in which he had made the
last lap of the journey from the east.
They were young, and Lois soon
would have their first bab>

Doc Gordon and Joe had grown
up together in New Chance. When
the mining town stopped flourishing
he had moved to Twin Forks, fifteei
miles away, and tried unsuccessfully

dulled now with fog and dirt. And down ana everyooay movea oui. i
34

i am i airaid o nothin' at all!"

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Kindness was something Ca-
sino had never known until
she met Joe Meade, who
said, "There's lots of folks
in the world that need a new
chance." Read radio's tend-
er story of gallant people

JOE MEADE found her in a dark
alleyway on the San Francisco
waterfront. He had followed the
sound of her .sobs until he almost
stumbled over her, crouched next to
an ash can. At his touch she started,
terrified, to her feet, and tried to run
away. He had almost to drag her
with him to an all-night lunch
wagon; even then she came, it
seemed, because she was afraid of
attracting attention by making a
scene.

* BRAVE

Flctionlied from the popular serial of the same name, heard on
NBC's Red network, Monday through Friday, at 5.00 P.M., E.D.T.,
sponsored by Certo and Sure-Jell. Photographs posed by Sammie
Hill as Casino, Ed Latimer as Joe and Vincent Donehue as Hell.

dressed in something prettier than
her threadbare skirt, sweater, and
soiled man's lumberjack.

Her name, she said, was Casino.

"Casino what?" he asked.

"Just Casino," she answered stub-
bornly.

"Where do you live?"

"Nowhere. Around." She set
down her coffee cup and glared at
the counterman. "Seems to me that
fellow's stickin' his nose pretty far
into what we're sayin'."

"I ain't even listenin'!" the
counterman said defensively, and
moved with dignity out of earshot.

"But how about your folks?" Joe
asked. "Where are they?"

"I ain't got no folks!" she said
with such vehemence that he
jumped. "Get that straight. None
at all!"

There was an undercurrent of ex-
citement in his voice when he spoke
of New Chance. It made her look
at him curiously. Then her interest
faded and she said with instinctive
suspicion:

"What you try in' to hand me,
Mister? What you want out of it?"

"Nothin'. Lots of people in this
world need a new chance. And New
Chance needs people, to help build
it again."

"What you afraid of, Casino?" he
asked softly.

"Nothin'!" Her voice was shrill-
"I ain't afraid o' nothin' at all!"

RADIO AND

TELEVISION MW»0"

She would have been beautiful, Joe thought, but
now her lips were sullen, her eyes were cynical.

You

J°e smiled tolerantly. "All right.

HowWure jUSt actin' a little JuniPy-
w about comin' to New Chance?"

w °,r a moment she considered him

"Oka, ,Finallv she shrugged.

Eivp ,' Why not?" she sighed. "I'll
ge u a whirl."

Joe°M0 !ahe Sma11 group of people

Chan/ had brought to New

small °ne more was added • • • one

. underfed girl who appeared

to trust no one but Joe Meade, and
not always even him.

come with Joe at the very first: he
had picked them up in the freighl
train in which he had made the
last lap of the journey from the east.
They were young, and Lois soon
would have their first baby.

Doc Gordon and Joe had grown
up together in New Chance. When
the mining town stopped flourishing
he had moved to Twin Forks, fifteen
miles away, and tried unsuccessfully

to continue his practice there. By
the time Joe returned to New
Chance he had become old and poor,
weakened by liquor and the con-
viction of his own incompetence. It
was Joe's own secret how he had
persuaded Doc that his life and
usefulness were not necessarily over.

As for the Mulvaneys, they were
a pair of Irishmen, as strong and
gnarled as two shillalies, who had
driven in their old car up the steep
dirt road to New Chance one after-
noon and announced they wanted to
live and work there.

To this community Casino came
like a beggar-girl invited to a
church supper — dubious, wary, un-
able to believe in the sincerity of her
hosts. Kindness, Joe Meade said to
Doc, was so foreign to her experi-
ence that she didn't know how to
accept it.

"I know how she feels," the un-
dersized, grizzled doctor said. "The
way I felt when you found me in
Twin Forks. I couldn't figure out
why anybody'd want me around . . .
or trust me if they were sick."

A GOOD many folks are like that
these days, Doc." Joe's eyes
grew sombre momentarily. Then he
brightened. "But you know better
now — and pretty soon Casino will,
too . . . How's Lois doin'?"

"Oh, fine," Doc said quickly. "Just
fine. Any time now."

"Not — worried, are you, Doc?"

"No," Doc said, and then in quick
confession, "Yes. The baby's over-
due. I don't like it. And it's so long
since I practiced — "

"You're a good doctor," Joe said.
"If anybody can help her, you can.
That's one thing I'm sure of. And
don't you forget it, neither."

With a pat on Doc's shoulder, he
turned and went down the street
toward his own cabin. A kerosene
lamp glowed in the window, and he
knew that Casino's inexpert hands
would have prepared a supper for
him. He smiled in the darkness. She
was a terrible cook, but he would
not have told her so for the world.

After supper he leaned back and
said, "Those're good biscuits you
whipped up, Casino. The coffee,
too."

"Lois showed me how," she ad-
mitted shyly. "They ain't very
good, I guess. But maybe I'll get
the hang of 'em after a while." She
leaned forward, chin cradled in her
hands. "That Lois, I can't figure her
out. I think she's a dope."

"A dope?" Joe inquired mildly.
"Why?"

What's she all steamed up for

over that baby she's goin' to have?

Innest, Joe, she don't think of

nothin' else! When she talks about

the kid her face shines like some-
body's left her a million bucks. And
it ain't even born yet!"

"You don't think a baby's any-
thing to get excited about?"

In disgust, Casino said, "What do
they want with a kid? They haven't
got a dime! Ain't things tough
enough for them, they want to make
'em worse?"

Chuckling, Joe said, "Maybe
you're a little young to understand."

"Me young?" Casino's short
laugh was sardonic. "I'm a million
years old, Joe. I've seen women
have babies before — scared to death
to tell their husbands there was
goin' to be another mouth to feed,
wishin' the babies'd die because it'd
be better for 'em. Don't talk to me,"
she said bitterly, "about bein'
young!"

"Neil and Lois don't feel that way.
They don't own much of anything,
but they want that baby. Maybe just
because they don't own anything,
they want it. It'll be something that
belongs just to them."

"Sounds dopey to me," Casino in-
sisted. "They're better off without
it. And the kid's better off, not
bein' born."

Joe was appalled at the depth of
her cynicism and despair. She still
had not told him anything of her
past; what did it hold to create such
bitterness? Wanting to ask her, he
was interrupted by the sudden thud
of footsteps on the wooden porch.

It was Neil Davisson who burst
in, panting. "It's Lois!" he cried.
"Come quick, Joe — and Casino too!
She thinks she's going to have her
baby pretty soon."

Joe's chair scraped as he stood up.
"That's good, Neil. Is Doc with
her?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to
you about, before I went to get
him." Neil's tanned face was
strained; his young, muscular body
vibrated with nervousness. "Maybe
we ought to send to Twin Forks for
a different doctor. Doc Gordon's
scared — I know he is — "

"Now, Neil, calm down," Joe ad-
vised. "There's nothin' to get scared
about, either for you or Doc. Go get
him, now, and if he thinks it'd be a
good idea to call another doctor,
he'll say so, and we'll do it."

They had come out on the porch
of the cabin, and Joe and Casino
started down the steps. But Neil
hesitated. "Well— I—" he began,
and swallowed. "I guess I better
tell you this, Joe. I don't think Doc'll
come now. We had a little talk half
an hour ago and — and I guess I said
some things I shouldn't of. I — let
him know I didn't have much con-
fidence in him and he went away.
That was before I knew the baby

was coming maybe tonight."

"That was a crazy thing to do,
boy." Joe's voice was stern. "Casino,
you go with Neil to his house. I'll
talk to Doc."

If I can find him, he thought as
he left them. He knew on what a
slender thread a man's self-confi-
dence could hang; now Doc might
really be afraid to attend Lois. And
if he were — There was no telephone
connection with Twin Forks. It
would be hours before they could
get a doctor up from there.

In the Davisson cabin, Casino or-
dered Neil to build up the fire in the
stove and* start water to heating,
while she made Lois as comfortable
as possible in the bedroom. Some
feminine instinct seemed to take the
place of actual knowledge as she
moved about the bed where Lois lay,
the skin of her forehead damp under
curls of brown hair.

HADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Reassuringly, she said, "Don't
worry, Lois. Everything's goin' to
be all right. Doc's on his way here
now."

EXHAUSTED relief showed on
Lois' pinched face. "Oh, is he
coming, Casino? I was so afraid . . .
You see, I overheard Neil talking
to him — the window was open and
they were outside — I tried to call
Neil and say I knew Doc could
handle the delivery. But they were
arguing too loud, they didn't hear
me. And Neil called Doc an old
drunk — " Weak tears roiled down
her cheeks, but she went breathless-
ly on. "I wanted to tell Neil I wanted
Doc and nobody else. Because it's
so important to him — If he thought
we didn't trust him, he'd never be
any good again. And he can do it —
I know he can — "

Casino laid her brown, thin hand

on Lois' head, quieting its restless
tossing. "Doc'll be here pretty soon,"
she promised. "Joe went to get him,
so he'll come."

"I'm not afraid, really I'm not,
Casino. Neil doesn't understand. He
thinks I don't know how sick I am.
But I do. I know I may have trouble.
It doesn't matter — nobody could
want a baby as much as I do and
not have one. And I mustn't be
selfish .'. . I mustn't let Doc think I
don't trust him — "

The scattered, incoherent words
died out on a gasp of pain. Casino
stood by the bed, letting Lois' fin-
gers bite into her hands until the
paroxysm was over. Then, quietly,
absorbed in some thought of her
own, she went around the room, col-
lecting towels, cloths, basins — any-
thing that might be of use to the
doctor when he came.

It was not long before he was

She smiled, and Joe was reminded of the
startling loveliness of dawn light on a dis-
tant peak. Casino was becoming a woman.

SEPTEMBER, 1941

there, bringing into the close, warm
room an atmosphere that was a
strange mixture of desperation and
hope. As he made his preparations
Casino saw his lips working con-
tinually, and knew that he was bit-
ing their inner surfaces in the one
gesture of anxiety that slipped past
his control.

After a while he threw her a
quick glance. "Better go outside and
rest a minute — have a cup of coffee
or something," he said. "Nothin'
to do now but wait, anyhow . . . And
tell Neil not to worry."

Neil was in the kitchen, stuffing
more wood into a roaring fire, and
she said, "Everything's goin' to be
all right. Doc says not to worry."
"Is — is the baby here yet?"
"Nope. Not yet. . . . Where's Joe?"
"Outside, on the porch."
She found him perched on the top
step, gazing down the street and
past it, up to the mountains at which
he seemed never to tire of looking;
and as she sank down beside him she
said in a voice which tried unsuc-
cessfully to keep its old tone of
mockery:

"Gee! Never thought I'd be doin'
anything like this. I feel like one
o' them pioneer women you see in
the movies."

Joe turned; in the moonlight she
could see his smile. "Maybe you are
a pioneer, Casino. Maybe we all
are, here in New Chance."

She gripped the rough boards of
the porch on each side of her. "Joe,"
she said with an effort, "New Chance
—what you're tryin' to do here,
build it up and all — that means a lot
to you, don't it?"

"More than anything in the
world," he said with the simplicity
of deep conviction.

"I got to tell you," Casino burst
out. "I didn't want to, but tonight
— well, things're happenin' that
show me I got to. I ain't the kind
o' girl you want here in New
Chance. Lois, in there, she is. She's
havin' a baby, and she's scared, but
she'd rather take a chance on Doc
than have anybody else, even if —
even if he made a mistake and some-
thin' terrible happened. If it was
me, I'd be screamin' and cussin' and
carryin' on. I wouldn't care if I
hurt Doc's feelin's, just as long as
I was bein' taken care of so I
wouldn't die. I wouldn't even have
the sense to figure, like Lois does,
that it's important for New Chance
not to hurt Doc's feelin's."

"You don't know what you'd be
doin'. Casino," Joe told her, un-
moved by her confession. 'You
might be just as brave, and just as
thoughtful, as Lois."

'I wouldn't," Casino said miser-
ably. "But (Continued on page GO)

A GOOD many folks are like that
these days, Doc." Joe's eyes
grew sombre momentarily. Then he
brightened. "But you know better
now — and pretty soon Casino will,
too . . . How's Lois doin'?"

"Oh, fine," Doc said quickly. "Just
fine. Any time now."

"Not — worried, are you, Doc?"

"No," Doc said, and then in quick
confession, "Yes. The baby's over-
due. I don't like it. And it's so long
since I practiced — "

"You're a good doctor," Joe said.
"If anybody can help her, you can.
That's one thing I'm sure of. And
don't you forget it, neither."

After supper he leaned back and
said, "Those're good biscuits you
whipped up, Casino. The coffee,
too."

"A dope?" Joe inquired mildly.
"Why?"

"What's she all steamed up for

over that baby she's goin' to have?

Honest, Joe, she don't think of

nothin' else! When she talks about

the kid her face shines like some-
body's left her a million bucks. And
it ain't even born yet!"

"You don't think a baby s any-
thing to get excited about?"

In disgust, Casino said, "What do
they want with a kid? They haven t
got a dime! Ain't things tough
enough for them, they want to make
'em worse?"

Chuckling, Joe said, "Maybe
you're a little young to understand."

"Me young?" Casino's short
laugh was sardonic. "I'm a million
years old, Joe. I've seen women
have babies before— scared to death
to tell their husbands there was
goin' to be another mouth to feed,
wishin' the babies'd die because it'd
be better for 'em. Don't talk to me,"
she said bitterly, "about bein'
young!"

"Neil and Lois don't feel that way.
They don't own much of anything,
but they want that baby. Maybe just
because they don't own anything,
they want it. It'll be something that
belongs just to them."

"Sounds dopey to me," Casino in-
sisted. "They're better off without
it. And the kid's better off, not
bein' born."

It was Neil Davisson who burst
in, panting. "It's Lois!" he cried.
"Come quick, Joe — and Casino too!
She thinks she's going to have her
baby pretty soon."

Joe's chair scraped as he stood up.
"That's good, Neil. Is Doc with
her?"

some things I shouldn't of. I let

him know I didn't have much con-
fidence in him and he went away.
That was before I knew the baby

was coming maybe tonight."

"That was a crazy thing to do,
boy." Joe's voice was stern. "Casino,
you go with Neil to his house. I'li
talk to Doc."

In the Davisson cabin, Casino or-
dered Neil to build up the fire in the
stove andc start water to heating,
while she made Lois as comfortable
as possible in the bedroom. Some
feminine instinct seemed to take the
place of actual knowledge as she
moved about the bed where Lois lay,
the skin of her forehead damp under
curls of brown hair.

Reassuringly, she said, "Don't
worry, Lois. Everything's goin' to
be all right. Doc's on his way here
now."

rXHAUSTED relief showed on
t Lois' pinched face. "Oh, is he
coming, Casino? I was so afraid . . .
you see, I overheard Neil talking
to him— the window was open and
they were outside — I tried to call
jjeil and say I knew Doc could
handle the delivery. But they were
arguing too loud, they didn't hear
me. And Neil called Doc an old
drunk — " Weak tears rolled down
her cheeks, but she went breathless-
ly on. "I wanted to tell Neil I wanted
Doc and nobody else. Because it's
so important to him — If he thought
we didn't trust him, he'd never be
any good again. And he can do it —
I know he can — "
Casino laid her brown, thin hand

tonssSs'"neo^i r:ting its restie<*

tossing. Doc 11 be here pretty soon "
^rcre"'^^^-^.

It I lkn°W 1 may have tr°uble.
wanf ?l V matter-n°°ody could
want a baby as much as I do and
not have And T ^^ ^

rinn-VV ' ;IumUStn't let D0C thi"k I

don t trust him — "

The scattered, incoherent words
Td°^ on a gasP of pain. Casino
stood by the bed, letting Lois' fin-
gers bite into her hands until the
paroxysm was over. Then, quietly
absorbed in some thought of her
own, she went around the room col-
lecting towels, cloths, basins— any-
thing that might be of use to the
doctor when he came.

It was not long before he was

RADIO AND TELEVISION I

She smiled, and Joe was reminded of the
startling loveliness of dawn light on a dis-
tant peak. Casino was becoming a woman.

IBm, 1941

After a while he threw her a
quick glance. "Better go outside and
rest a minute— have a cup of coffee
or something," he said. "Nothin'
to do now but wait, anyhow . . . And
tell Neil not to worry."

Neil was in the kitchen, stuffing
more wood into a roaring fire, and
she said, "Everything's goin' to be
all right. Doc says not to worry."
"Is — is the baby here yet?"

"Nope. Not yet Where's Joe?"

"Outside, on the porch."
She found him perched on the top
step, gazing down the street and
past it, up to the mountains at which
he seemed never to tire of looking;
and as she sank down beside him she
said in a voice which tried unsuc-
cessfully to keep its old tone of
mockery:

"Gee! Never thought I'd be doin'
anything like this. I feel like one
o' them pioneer women you see in
the movies."

Joe turned; in the moonlight she
could see his smile. "Maybe you are
a pioneer, Casino. Maybe we all
are, here in New Chance."

She gripped the rough boards of
the porch on each side of her. "Joe,"
she said with an effort, "New Chance
—what you're tryin' to do here,
b'uild it up and all— that means a lot
to you, don't it?"

"More than anything in the
world," he said with the simplicity
of deep conviction.

"You don't know what you'd be
doin', Casino," Joe told her, un-
moved by her confession. "You
might be just as brave, and just as
thoughtful, as Lois."

"I wouldn't," Casino said miser-
ably. "But (Continued on page 60)
:J7

°f.f mw

ALONG time ago Mark Twain
said that everybody talked
about the weather but that no-
body did anything about it and I'm
beginning to believe that that's the
way a lot of people feel about des-
serts. So many people argue that
we shouldn't eat desserts because
they're too sweet, too rich, too this
or too that — but they don't do any-
thing about cutting them out of
their own menus. On the contrary,
they are just as likely to pass their
plates back for a second helping as
you or I.

Well, I think these people are
smarter than they realize, not in
talking against the traditional and
popular last course, but in continu-
ing to eat and enjoy it. For with
modern knowledge about food re-
quirements and modern methods of
selecting and preparing food to meet
those requirements, dessert today
can be just as healthful as any other

BY HATS SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Kate Smith's vacationing from her Friday
night CBS show, but you con still hear
her on her daily talks over CBS at 72
noon, E.D.T., sponsored by General Foods.

course that precedes it. This is espe-
cially true of canned fruit desserts.
Present day canners know just how
to cook fruits so that their true
flavor and minerals remain intact;
there's no longer any overcooking,
no oversweetening to hide the flavor
lost by prolonged cooking at too low
or too high temperature. Another
factor so important from both a
taste and a nutritional standpoint
which today's canners are able to
control so much more efficiently
than those of the past is growing
and harvesting the fruits to be
canned. Only the finest varieties
and qualities are used for canning;
they are grown under ideal condi-
tions, picked just at the peak of their
ripeness and canned immediately
so that there is no mineral loss due
to exposure to the air.

So since it's dessert you're after,
I'm bringing you this month new
and flavorsome recipes which not

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

only taste good but which, revolu-
tionary as that idea may sound to
you, contain the ingredients neces-
sary to round out a nourishing and
well balanced menu. They are
recipes which have been our fa-
vorites here at Camp Sunshine on
Lake Placid, where I'm spending
the summer and they are all made
of canned fruits not only because
they are so easy to keep on hand and
require so little time to prepare, but
because they give such supersatis-
factory results.

My Favorite Shortcake

Prepared gingerbread mix

Ice cream

Canned sliced peaches

We use prepared gingerbread mix
for this, for after all, it's a summer
dessert and we like to make every-
thing as easy as possible, but use
your own gingerbread recipe if you
prefer. Bake it in two 9-inch layer
pans and allow to cool. Chill the
peaches and drain them well. Spread
peach or vanilla ice cream gener-
ously over one gingerbread layer,
cover with sliced peaches and then
put the second gingerbread layer in
place. Arrange peach slices on top
and put a generous scoop of ice
cream in the center. A variation of
this shortcake is to use canned
pears, either plain or in grenadine,
and either mint or pistachio ice
cream.

Ice Cream with Black Cherry Sauce

This is a combination I've often
ordered at Schrafft's restaurants, but
the same recipe can be made right
in your own home and it's equally
delicious and beautiful, too, as you
can see from the picture at the left.

IVz to 3 cups canned sweet black cherries
1V2 cups juice

5 tbls. granulated sugar

4 tsps. cornstarch

2 tbls. cold water

4 tbls. Jamaica rum (optional)

1 tsp. lemon juice

One large jar of cherries will fur-
nish desired quantity of fruit and
juice. If there isn't sufficient juice
add water. Drain cherries and cut
in half, removing pits if they have
not been pitted. Heat cherry juice,
add sugar and cook until dissolved,
then add cornstarch which has been
mixed to smooth paste with cold
water. Cook slowly, stirring con-
stantly, until smooth and thick. Re-
move from fire, cool to room
temperature then add rum and
lemon juice. Chill thoroughly and
serve on ice cream. This sauce is
also excellent for puddings or to
pour over sponge cake.

Grape Cream Meringue

The unusual thing about this pie
aside from the fact that everybody

SEPTEMBER. 1941

A most luscious but not too rich
dessert is this shortcake, made
of prepared gingerbread, with ice
cream and canned sliced peaches.

The odd thing about this Grape
Cream Pie is that the meringue,
instead of being on top as usual,
is underneath, forming the crust.

It tastes as good as it looks —
Cherry Brazil Nut Pie. The combi-
nation of canned red cherries and
nuts makes a delicious new flavor.

always asks for more is that the
meringue, instead of being on top
where we usually find a meringue,
is underneath — in fact it is the bot-
tom crust of the pie.

Meringue Shell

Ya tsp. salt Va cup sugar

2 egg whites V* tsp. vinegar

Vt tsp. vanilla

Add salt to egg whites and beat
until foamy. Add sugar gradually,
beating after each addition. Con-
tinue beating until mixture is stiff
enough to stand in peaks, then add
vinegar and vanilla. Spread evenly
on bottom and sides of well-but-
tered pie plate, swirling mixture
around rim of plate as pictured. Bake
at 275 degrees F. 40 to 45 min-
utes, when meringue should be
crisp. Cool thoroughly before put-
ting in filling.

Filling

2V2 tsp. gelatin

Vi cup water

1 cup grape juice

1 tsp. lemon juice-

Vi cup sugar

% tsp. salt

1 cup heavy cream

Soften gelatin in water for 5 min-
utes. Combine grape juice, lemon
juice, salt and sugar and stir until
sugar is dissolved. Add 1 table-
spoon of the grape juice mixture to
the gelatin and stir well, then com-
bine the two mixtures. Chill until
syrupy then beat cream until thick
but not stiff, and fold it into the
grape juice mixture. Cool until
slightly thickened, then pour into
meringue shell and chill until firm.

Cherry Brazil Nut Pie

Pastry for 9-inch pie plate
% cup sugar
3 tbls. cornstarch

1 cup canned cherry juice

2 cups canned red cherries
1 tbl. butter

% cup sliced Brazil nuts

Line 9-inch pie plate with un-
cooked pastry, reserving sufficient
pastry for lattice strips across top.
Mix sugar and cornstarch, then add
cherry juice and cook, using low
heat and stirring constantly, until
mixture thickens. Remove from
heat, add cherries, butter and Brazil
nuts and pour into pastry. Moisten
edge of pastry with cold water, ar-
range lattice of pastry strips across
pie and bake at 425 degrees F. for
30 minutes.

Fruit Mallow Cream

1 jar canned fruit salad

Marshmallows
1 cup whipping cream
Vfe tsp. almond extract

Drain fruit salad, and cut marsh-
mallows into quarters with scissors
— there should be half the quantity
of chopped marshmallows as there
is of fruit salad. Combine fruit,
marshmallows and almond flavoring
and chill for about an hour before
serving. Just before serving, fold
in cream which has been whipped
until stiff. Serve in sherbet glasses,
reserving sufficient whipped cream
to decorate tops of glasses.

PERRY WHITE, editor of the Daily
Planet, looked up as Clark Kent and
Lois Lane, his two star reporters,
entered his office.

"Sit down, both of you. I have an
assignment for you. Do you remem-
ber those rumors about that isolated
town of Gravesend, up in the back-
woods mountain regions? Well, this
morning I got a letter from a fellow
called Lee Jenkins who lives there.
Listen to this:

" 'Dear Editor: I write to you cause
other folks is afraid. Ever since the
Pillar of Fire come up out of the
ground in Gravesend we have been
living in fear of our lives. The Leader
says it's a sign that we should leave
our homes and move away. PLEASE
HELP US! If you send a reporter,
have him meet me at the bridge five
miles outside of town at 11 o'clock
tonight. Don't let him come to the
village if he values his life!'

"Well, Kent — what do you make
of it?"

"It's hard to say, Mr. White — but
I'd like to go up there and look
into it!"

Late that evening, Kent and Lois
pulled up on the wooden bridge a few
miles out of Gravesend. It was one
minute to eleven when Kent glanced
at his watch. He stepped on the gas
again and the car moved forward.
The back wheels had hardly left the
bridge structure when the stillness of
the night was blasted with a shaking
explosion. The two reporters looked
back to see the bridge, smashed to
bits, disappear into the water. Kent
faced the frightened girl.

"Well, Miss Lane — it looks as if
someone didn't want our company.
They just missed getting rid of us.
And I have a hunch we won't see
Jenkins tonight. Whoever planted
that bomb must have taken care of
him, too. I guess we'll just have to
go on to Gravesend."

Minutes later their car entered the
narrow gateway that was the only
entrance to the strangely walled town.
They drove through deserted streets,
their motor sending strange echoes
through the night. Finally, Kent
noticed a light in a large white house
which sat back off the road. He
parked and he and Lois walked up
to the porch. A tall, heavy-set man
answered their ring.

"Good evening, sir," Kent said. "We
are two reporters from the Daily
Planet in the city. We're looking for
a place to spend the night."

"Come in — come in. I'm the Mayor
of Gravesend. I have plenty of room
right here. But what in the world
brings two reporters to my little
city?*

Mayor," Lois interrupted, "I won-
der if you'd mind if I went along to
bed now while Mr. Kent talks to you?
I think the drive and experience we
had a few minutes ago was a little too

*4s>

One good shove and Superman got
the big boulder out of his way.

He seized the two falling bodies
and hauled them back to safety.

i/ /

'<?

Red cloak streaming in the wind,
Superman raced to rescue Lois.

much for me.

Solicitously, the Mayor escorted
Lois to her room. Alone with Kent,
he listened to the reporter's story of
the letter and the bomb. Utterly be-
wildered, he shook his head.

"I've never heard of a Leader or the
Pillar of Fire or anything else. But — "

A loud, piercing scream and then
the sounds of a struggle on the floor
above drowned out the rest of his
words. Taking the steps two at a
time, Kent reached Lois' door. He
shook the knob and pounded on the
heavy wooden panels but there was
no answer. He turned to the Mayor
who had run after him.

"The door is locked. We'll have to
break it down!"

"Impossible, Kent. It's too heavy —
I'll run and get help!"

As soon as the Mayor disappeared,
Kent went into action — "Good thing
the Mayor's gone. Now Clark Kent
can give way to — Superman! Now —
just one good shove! Ah-h — that did
it. I'm through! But where 's Lois?"

Quickly he searched the room. There
was no trace of her. Moving with the
speed of lightning, Superman tapped
the walls, searching vainly for a
hidden door or panel. Finally he saw
a large closet in a corner. He jerked
the door open and tapped the wall.
His knuckles echoed hollowly.

"This is it — it's hollow! No time to
waste looking for the panel release.
I'll have to break right through. Back
to get a good start — then forward!"

The wall went down as the Man of
Steel brought his shoulder against it.
"Good — this is it. This is the passage
the people who got Miss Lane must
have taken. No time to lose now . . .
no one in sight. Faster— FASTER—
before they get away!"

A weird figure rocketed through the
underground passages of Gravesend.
Red cloak streaming in the wind,
Superman raced to the rescue of Lois
Lane. Suddenly, he came to the end
of the tunnel and out into the open.
Then, momentarily startled by the
sight that met his eyes, he stopped
short. Unbelieving, he watched a
solid sheet of orange flame leap hun-
dreds of feet into the air.

"So that's the Pillar of Fire the
Mayor said didn't exist. But wait a
minute — what's that up on the cliff?
A figure — no — two figures! Why, it's
a man — and he's carrying Lois on his
shoulders! I've got to get to them
quickly. Up — up — and AWAY! ... He
can't see me through all this smoke —
but I can see him! Lois seems limp —
must have fainted. Gosh — he's crawl-
ing dangerously close to the cliff-edge.
. . . Great Scott! — the edge is break-
ing off — there he goes — both of them
slipped over! I've got to work fast!"

The tall figure swooped down with
the swiftness of a bullet. His hands,
strong and accurate, seized the two
falling bodies (Continued on page 77)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

^pwurfau

Broadway columnist Ed Sullivan (left) and young bandleader Will Bradley are
co-starred on the Silver Theater Summer show over CBS — plus a special guest star.

ON THE A I

The Silver Theater Summer Show,
starring Ed Sullivan and Will Bradley's
orchestra, sponsored by the International
Silver Company on CBS at 6:00 P.M.,
E.D.T.

Maybe you think Ed Sullivan, the
Broadway columnist who is master of
ceremonies of this program, is a new-
comer to radio If you do, you're all
wrong. He had his own show on NBC in
the early network days, and on that show
he introduced a number of talented radio
unknowns. Gertrude Niesen was one.
Jack Pearl was another. A third was a
guy named Jack Benny, who was doing all
right in vaudeville then but didn't know
what a magic future the microphone had
for him. After that first series of pro-
grams Ed Sullivan rather dropped out of
the radio picture and concentrated on his
newspaper writing — but now he's back,
and still discovering new talent.

Ed lives at the Hotel Astor, right in the
middle of his beloved Times Square; but
that doesn't mean you can ever locate him
there. With the possible exception of
Mayor LaGuardia, he must be one of the
hardest men in New York to find. He's
always out, browsing around the city in
search of items for his column. Occasion-
ally he makes a frenzied dash for the
country to visit his wife and daughter,
both of whom he adores but seldom sees.

Although he knows hundreds of celeb-
rities and makes his living by mixing with
people,? Ed is really quite shy. It was
planned to have his program come from a
CBS playhouse, with an audience. After

TONIGHT:

a couple of broadcasts they had to bar the
audience — it made Ed nervous. The pro-
gram still takes place in the playhouse,
with a rather eerie effect — Will Bradley's
swing band playing away madly in front
of rows of empty seats.

Ed takes pride in several things. One,
that he has successfully given many new-
comers their first important break. Two,
that he is an Irishman. Three — for no par-
ticular reason that anyone can tell — that
although all the papers he worked on
when he was a struggling young reporter
have since failed, the one he works for
now is still flourishing.

Will Bradley's orchestra is only about
a year old, and this is its first commercial
radio program. It came to success via
the phonograph-record and juke-box
routes. "Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the
Bar," was the song which first helped it
climb into high favor with swing-music
addicts. It also helped to popularize the
"boogie-woogie" type of music — but if you
don't know what boogie-woogie is, don't
ask, because it's much too involved to go
into here. In spite of the band's swingy
reputation, though, Will says only nine of
the pieces in its repertoire of over a hun-
dred tunes are real boogie-woogie.

Rehearsals of the Silver Summer Show
are informal and lots of fun. The boys in
the band are all young — Will himself is
about thirty and looks twenty — and noth-
ing can restrain them from jam-sessions
between numbers. Usually a few friends
or relatives of the band-members are
present to burst into delighted applause.

For Eastern Standard Time or Central Daylight

Time, subtract one hour from Eastern Daylight Time. ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

August 3: The special guest of the Ford Summer Hour, tonight at 9:00 on CBS, is

Buddy Clark, the popular tenor.
August 10: Mary Eastman, who hasn't been heard on the air enough recently, comes

to the Ford Hour tonight for a guest appearance.
August 24: And tonight's Ford Hour guest is Maxine Sullivan, the colored singer, who

does things with popular music no one else in the world can do. . . . Have you

listened yet to CBS' amusing Young Ideas program at 5:00?

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Eastern Daylight Time

NBC-Blue: News
NBC-Red: Organ Recital

NBC-Blue: Tone Pictures
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

CBS: News of Europe
NBC: News from Europe

CBS: From the Organ Loft
NBC-Blue: White Rabbit Line
NBC-Red. Deep River Boys

NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: Church of the Air

NBC-Blue: Primrose String Quartet

NBC-Red: Radio Pulpit

CBS: Wings Over Jordan
NBC-Blue: Southernaires

CBS: News
NBC-Blue: News

CBS: What's New at the Zoo
NBC-Blue: Treasure Trails of Song

CBS: Syncopation Piece
NBC-Red: Emma Otero

NBC-Blue I'm an American

CBS: Salt Lake City Tabernacle
NBC-Blue: Radio City Music Hall
NBC- Red Down South

CBS: Church of the Air
NBC- Red: Silver Strings

CBS: Choose

NBC-Blue: Matinee with Lytell

CBS: Invitation to Learning
NBC-Blue: Hidden History
NBC-Red: NBC String Symphony

NBC-Blue: Foreign Policy Assn.

CBS: News

NBC-Blue: Tapestry Musicale
NBC-Red: University of Chicago
Round Table

CBS: Columbia Symphony
NBC-Blue: JOSEF MARAIS

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

NBC-Blue: Talent, Ltd.
NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

CBS: Meet the Music
NBC-Blue: National Vespers

NBC-Red: Upton Close

CBS: Spirit of '41
NBC-Blue: Behind the Mike
NBC- Red: Charles Dant Orch.

CBS: Young Ideas
NBC-Blue: Moylan Sisters
NBC-Red: Joe and Mabel

NBC-Blue: Olivio Santoro

CBS: The Ontario Show
NBC-Red: Roy Shield Orch.

CBS: Ed Sullivan

NBC-Blue: Blue Barron Orch.

NBC-Red: Catholic Hour

CBS: Gene Autry and Dear Mom
MBS: Bulldog Drummond
NBC-Red: Dr. I. Q. Junior

NBC-Blue: News From Europe
NBC-Red: Reg'lar Fellers

CBS: Delta Rhythm Boys

CBS: World News Tonight
NBC-Blue: Pearson and Allen
NBC-Red: Fitch Bandwagon

MBS: Wythe Williams

CBS: Pause That Refreshes
NBC-Blue: Star Spangled Theater
NBC-Red: What's My Name

CBS: Crime Doctor

NBC-Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery

NBC-Red: ONE MAN'S FAMILY

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: FORD SUMMER HOUR
MBS: Old Fashioned Revival
NBC-Blue: Walter Winchell
NBC-Red: Manhattan Merry-Go-

Round
NBC-Blue: The Parker Family

NBC- Blue: Irene Rich
NBC-Red: American Album of
Familiar Music

NBC-Blue: Bill Stern Sports Review

CBS: Take It or Leave It
NBC-Blue: Goodwill Hour
NBC-Red: Hour of Charm

CBSXolumbia Workshop
NBC-Red. Deadline Drama

CBS: Headlines and Bylines
NBC: Dance Orchestra

INSIDE RADIO-The Radio Mirror Almanac-Programs from July 25 to Aug. 26

SEPTEMBER, 1941

MONDAY

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</>

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Life Can be Beautiful
We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White

MBS: Government Girl

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

30 CBS. Right to Happiness

30 MBS Front Page Farrell

45 CBS: Road of Life

45 MBS I'll Find My Way

0" CBS: Young Dr. Malone

00 NBC-Red: Light of the World

Is CBS: Girl Interne
1S|NBC-Red: The Mystery Man

4:5S
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5« CBS.
39 NBC-
30 NBC-

■•SJCBS:
45 NBC-
45 NBC-

8:30
8:30

rn Daylight Time
NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn
NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB
CBS: Hymns of All Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh
CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson
CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Buck Private
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph
CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman ol Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Blue: Modern Mother
NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Blue: Alma Kitchell
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday
MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS:

MBS

CBS:
NBC
NBC

CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
'S CBS
45 NBC-
45 NBC-

You're the Expert
Blue: The Munros
Red: Valiant Lady

Kate Hopkins

Blue: Midstream

Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

Mary Margare McBride
Blue: Orphans of Divorce
Red: Against the Storm

Frank Parker

Blue Honeymoon Hill

-Red: Ma Perkins

Renfro Valley Folks
Blue: John's Other Wife
Red: The Guiding Light

Lecture Hall

Blue: Just Plain Bill

Red: Vic and Sade

Richard Maxwell
Blue: Club Matinee

Red:

Red:
-Red:
-Red:

CBS:

NBC ■__.

NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC- Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin

NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs

NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS. The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC- Red: We, the Abbotts

l US Burl Ives

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

(US Edwin C. Hill

CBS Bob Trout

CBS: Hedda Hopper

CBS: Paul Sullivan

( HS The World Today

NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

NBC- Red; Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

Blue This Is tho Show

Ri-il: Fred Waring's Gang

Lanny Ross

Red. European News

BLONDIE
The Lone Ranger

}<•-'! Cavalcado of America

Report to tho Nation
Contact Davo Elman

Red Tho Tolophone Hour

GAY NINETIES

Blue: True or Falso

Red: Volco of Flrostono

Elmor Davie

Forecast
Gabriel Heattor

Blue Basin Street Music

Red Doctor I. ii

Blue News

Blue The Nickel Man

NBC-
NBC-

CBS:

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Raymond Gram Swing
Blue Famous Jury Trials
Red: Contented Hour
Girl About Town
-Blur Radio Forum

Charming Alma Ki+chell's NBC pro-
grams are designed to help women.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Alma Kitchell, star of three weekly
NBC programs that are specially prepared
and broadcast for women — Alma Kitchell's
Briefcase on NBC-Blue at 11:45 A.M.
Mondays, Alma Kitchell's Streamline
Journal on the Blue at 11:30 A.M. Tues-
days, and the Pin Money Party on NBC-
Red at 1: 15 P.M. Thursdays. All are sus-
taining programs, so their broadcast times
are subject to sudden change.

Alma Kitchell is a generously propor-
tioned, gracious woman with a great zest
for living, doing things and meeting
people. She admits herself that her radio
programs aren't "commercial." That's be-
cause she's more interested in helping
listeners — bringing them information that
will enrich their lives — than in just enter-
taining them. Nothing pleases her more
than to broadcast a show like the Pin
Money Party, which consists of stories of
women who have built big careers out of
enterprises that started with the desire to
make a little extra money.

Alma is a career woman herself, but
that hasn't kept her from being a very
successful wife and mother. She came to
New York as a very young woman with
the idea of being a concert singer; and she
not only accomplished that ambition but
she married her voice teacher too. They're
still happily married, live in a New York
suburb, and have two sons, one in college
and one in high school. Alma is vice presi-
dent of the high school's Parent-Teacher
Association. Her work at NBC keeps her
very busy, but she couldn't resist accept-
ing the vice-presidency when someone re-
minded her how proud it would make
her son.

She's a radio veteran — came to NBC
first as a singer, then began a program of
her own in which she talked about people
behind the scenes of radio. Now she al-
most never sings on the air, but that
doesn't mean she's given up that phase of
her career. She's a regular soloist in
church choirs and song recitals.

Tune in one of her programs, and you'll
soon find yourself under the spell of her
warm, friendly sincerity.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

July 28: Mutual broadcasts the fight to-
night between Fritzie Zivic, world
champion welterweight, and Freddy
Cochrane. Ten o'clock, E.D.T. — Don
Dunphy and Bill Corum at the micro-
phone.

August 4: Vox Pop starts a series on CBS
tonight at 8:00.

August 19: The series of N. Y. Phil-
harmonic concerts on CBS is nearly
over — so listen tonight at 9:30, E.D.T.

11:45

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U
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TUESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

9:00

9:45
9:45

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Hymns of all Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
8:00 10:00 NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
8:00 10:00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

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00
00

15 NBC
30 NBC
45 NBC
00 CBS:
00 NBC
00 NBC
:15 CBS
15

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue Buck Private
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Mary Lee Taylor
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red- Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Blue: Alma Kitchell
NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday
MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Government Girl

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne
NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: You're the Expert

NBC-Blue: The Munros
NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

Richard Maxwell

Blue: Club Matinee

Red: Backstage Wife

Red: Stella Dallas

Red: Lorenzo Jones

Red: Young Widder Brown

Mary Marlin

Blue: Children's Hour

Red: Home of the Brave

00
00
15
15
15
:30
30
30
:45
:45
:00 CBS:

NBC
NBC

_. The Goldbergs
NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life
CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines
NBC- Red: We, the Abbotts
CBS: Burl Ives
NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch
NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong
CBS: Edwin C. Hill
CBS: Paul Sullivan
CBS: The World Today
NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas
CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
NBC-Blue: EASY ACES
NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
CBS: Lanny Ross
NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen
NBC-Red: European News
CBS: Helen Menken
NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn
CBS: Court of Missing Heirs
MBS: Wythe Williams
NBC-Red: Johnny Presents
CBS: FIRST NIGHTER
NBC-Red: Horace Heidt
CBS: Elmer Davis
CBS: We, the People
NBC-Blue: Grand Central Station
NBC-Red: Battle of the Sexes
CBS: Stadium Concert
NBC-Blue: News
NBC-Red: Hap Hazard Show
NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man
CBS: Glenn Miller
MBS: Raymond Gram Swing
NBC-Blue: New American Music
NBC-Red: Date With Judy
CBS: Public Affairs
NBC-Red: College Humor
IS CBS: News of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

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WEDNESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time
8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

8:30 NBC-Blue: Ray Perkins

9:00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

9:45 CBS: Betty Crocker

9:45 NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

10:00 CBS: By Kathleen Norri*
10:00 NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
10:00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

10:15 CBS: Myrt and Marge
10:15 NBC-Blue: Buck Private
10:15 NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

10:30 CBS: Stepmother

10:30 NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

10:45 CBS: Woman of Courage
10:45 NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
10:45 NBC-Red: The Road of Life

11:00 CBS: Treat Time
11:00 NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

11:15 CBS: Martha Webster

11:15 NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

11:30 CBS: Big Sister

11:30 NBC- Red: The Goldbergs

11:45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
11:45 NBC-Red: David Harum

12:00 CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
12:00 NBC- Red: Words and Music

12:15 CBS: When a Girl Marries
12:15 NBC-Red: The O'Neills

12:30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
12:30 NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

12:45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday
12:45 MBS: Edith Adams' Future
1:00 CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
1:00 MBS: We Are Always Young

1:15 CBS: Woman in White
1:15 MBS: Government Girl
1:15 NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

1:30 CBS: Right to Happiness
1:30 MBS: Front Page Farrell

1:45 CBS: Road of Life

1:45 MBS: I'll Find My Way

2:00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone

2:00 NBC-Red: Light of the World

2-15 CBS: Girl Interne

2:15 NBC-Red: Mystery Man

2:30 CBS: You're the Expert

2-30 NBC-Blue: The Munros

2:30 NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

2-45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

2J45 NBC-Blue: Midstream

2:45 NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

3:00 CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

3-00 NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

3.00 NBC-Red: Against the Storm

3.15 CBS: Frank Parker

3:15 NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

3|l5 NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

3-30 CBS: Renfro Valley Folks

3.30 NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

3.3O NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

3.45 NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

3:45 NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

4-00 CBS: Richard Maxwell

4.00 NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

4J00 NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

4:15 NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

4:30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

4:45 NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

5-00 CBS: Mary Marlin

5:00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

5:00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

5-15 CBS: The Goldbergs

5:15 NBC- Red: Portia Faces Life

5:30 CBS: The O'Neills

5:30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

5:30 NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

5-45 CBS: Burl Ives

5:45 NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

5:45 NBC- Red: Jack Armstrong

6:00 CBS: Edwin C. Hill

6:10 CBS: Bob Trout

6:15 CBS: Hedda Hopper

6:30 CBS: Paul Sullivan

6:45 CBS: The World Today

6:45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

6:45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

7:00 CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

7:00 NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

7:00 NBC- Red: Fred Waring's Gang

7:15 CBS: Lanny Ross

7:15 NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

7:15 NBC-Red: European News

7:30 CBS: Meet Mr. Meek

7:30 MBS: The Lone Ranger

8:00 CBS: Rinso Show

8:00 NBC-Blue: Quiz Kids

8:00 NBC-Red: The Thin Man

8:30 CBS: Dr. Christian

8:30 MBS: Boake Carter

8:30 NBC-Blue: Manhattan at Midnight

8:30 NBC- Red: Plantation Party

8:55 CBS: Elmer Davis

9:00 CBS: Millions for Defense

9:00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter

9:00 NBC-Blue: Hemisphere Revue

9:00 NBC-Red: Quizzer Baseball
30 NBC-Red: Mr. District Attorney
55 NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man
00 CBS: Glenn Miller
00 MBS: Raymond Gram Swing
00 NBC-Blue: Author's Playhouse
00 NBC-Red: KAY KYSER
15 CBS: Public Affairs
30 CBS: Juan Arvizu

45. CBS: News of the World

Umpire Harry Von Zell and "pitcher"
Budd Hulick star on Quizzer Baseball.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Quizzer Baseball, the new question-and-
answer show on NBC-Red Wednesday
night at 9:00, E.D.T. (rebroadcast at 8:00,
Pacific Time) , sponsored by Ipana and
Sal Hepatica.

Don't let the title fool you. This pro-
gram has almost nothing to do with base-
ball. It's just a quiz show managed like a
baseball game. The players are divided
into teams; questions are "pitched" to
them; and correct answers bring either
single base hits, doubles, three-baggers or
home runs for the players. The winning
team gets a cash prize; the losing team gets
money too, but not as much.

It's a clever idea, but really tough on
the contestants, because they have to think
while the "pitcher" of the opposing team,
either Budd Hulick or a guest star, heckles
them and Harry Von Zell, the "umpire"
calls strikes against them. If you've ever
participated in a quiz program, you know
how hard this would be.

The stage in the NBC studio where the
show originates is all decked out with an
electric scoreboard like the ones used in
real baseball games, and Budd Hulick and
Harry Von Zell wear baseball uniforms.
Contestants draw their questions by pick-
ing a tiny wooden bat, bearing a number,
out of a box. The number corresponds
with a question, and all questions are
rated according to difficulty, so that before
he tries to answer it the player knows
whether it's a home run or only a single.
Of course this adds to the mental hazards.
It's safe to say that the players earn their
money.

Budd Hulick, the permanent "pitcher"
for the home team, has changed a good
deal from the screwball comedian you
used to hear with Colonel Stoopnagle.
Now he's a poised master of ceremonies
who concentrates on being pleasant and
friendly on the air and doesn't try very
hard to be funny.

The listening audience isn't asked to
send in questions, so don't rack your
brains for good ones.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

July 31: Bert Lahr is on the Kraft Music
Hall tonight, filling in the comedy spot
while Bob Burns is on vacation.

August 14: Tune in your Mutual station
at 10:00, E.D.T., for the fight between
Abe Simon and Buddy Baer. . . . There's
a new program starting tonight at 7:30
on CBS. Called Maudie's Diary, it's
about a feminine Henry Aldrich.

August 21: And speaking of Henry Al-
drich, he returns to NBC-Red at 8: 30 to-
night, after a month's vacation.

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THURSDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

NBC-Blue: Who's Blue

NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Hymns of All Churches

NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris

NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett

NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge

NBC-Blue: Buck Private

NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother

NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis

NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage

NBC-Blue: Wife Saver

NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Mary Lee Taylor

NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster

NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Big Sister

NBC-Blue: Richard Kent

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories

NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS

NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries

NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent

NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful

MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White

MBS: Government Girl

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

NBC-Red: Pin Money Party

CBS: Right to Happiness

MBS: Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life

MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone

NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Giri Interne

NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: You're the Expert

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm
CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill
NBC-Red: Ma Perkins
CBS: Renfro Valley Folks
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC-Red: The Guiding Light
CBS: Adventures in Science
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade
CBS: Richard Maxwell
NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC-Red: Backstage Wife
NBC-Red: Stella Dallas
NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones
NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown
CBS: Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave
CBS: The Goldbergs
NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Blue: We. the Abbotts

CBS: Burl Ives

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS:

Edwin C. Hill

Bob Edge

CBS: Paul Sullivan
NBC-Red: Rex Stout

CBS: The World Today
NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
NBC-Blue: EASY ACES
NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
CBS: Lanny Ross
NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen
NBC-Red: European News

CBS: Your Marriage Club
NBC-Red: Xavler Cugat

NBC- Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

CBS: Death Valley Days
MBS: Wythe Williams
NBC-Blue: The World's Best
NBC-Red: Benny Goodman

CBS: Barbershop Quartet
NBC-Blue: News

CBS: Elmer Davis

CBS: MAJOR BOWES
MBS Gabriel Heatter
XBC-Red: KRAFT MUSIC HALL

BC-Blue: The Nickel Man

US Glenn Miller
NBC-Blue: Montreal Symphony
NBC-Red: Rudy Vallee

Professor Quiz

NBC-Blue: Ahead of the Headlines
NBC-Red: Good Neighbors

CBS: News of the World

SEPTEMBER, 1941

FRIDAY

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NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue:
NBC-Red:

BREAKFAST CLUB
Isabel Manning Hewson

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CBS: Betty Crocker
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: IVlyrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Buck Private
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: Martha Webster
NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family
CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: When a Girl Marries
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday
MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful
MBS We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Government Girl
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS. Girl
NBC-Red:

Interne
Mystery Man

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CBS: You're the Expert
NBC-Blue: The Munros
NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: Mary Margaret McBride

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker

NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

CBS: Renfro Valley Folks

NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Exploring Space

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

CBS: Richard Maxwell

NBC-Blue Club Matinee

NBC- Red Backstage Wife

CBS: Highways to Health

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

BS: Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave
CBS: The Goldbergs
NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life
CBS: The O'Neills
NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

BS: Burl Ives
NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch
NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong
CBS: Edwin C. Hill
( lis Bob Trout
CBS: Hedda Hopper
CBS Paul Sullivan

CBS: The World Today

\l',( Blue Lowell Thomas

\ B( -Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amot 'n' Andy

\ B( Red Fred Warlng's Gang

< BS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Red: European News

I BS Southern Cruise
The Lone Ranger
Red Claudia
Blue Auction Quiz
Kill: Cities Service Concert

UBS:

c US

Mil
\li(
' I'.s

I I'.
< BS

Proudly We Hall
Red INFORMATION PLEASE
Elmor Davis

Great Momonts from Great
Plays

Cabrlol Heatter
II Blue Bon Bernle
Red: Waltz Time
( US Hollywood Promlore
II: l I, -..ill. Hi fdl I. In n!
I.' Blue Your Happy Birthday
■.!',( Red: Uncle Walter's Dog Houso

Bl Blue The Nickel Man

i BS Penthouse Party

M B! Raymond Gram Swing

: ■ l Wings of Destiny

Ni-wt of the World

Your announcer for many favorite
programs — radio veteran Ford Bond.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Ford Bond, who announces so many pro-
grams every week that it would be difficult
for you to miss hearing him at least once.
He's on three daytime serials — David
Harum, Stella Dallas, and Orphans of Di-
vorce— on Easy Aces, the Cities Service
Concert Friday nights and the Manhattan
Merry-Go-Round Sundays, and when
Rudy Vallee is in New York he announces
that program too. But he doesn't think
he's very busy just now. He used to an-
nounce thirty-three programs a week and
double as master of ceremonies in a stage
show at the Roxy Theater. After four
years of that he ended up with a nervous
breakdown and decided that from then
on he'd take things easier.

"Radio work isn't difficult," Ford says.
"It's just hard on your nerves."

Maybe you noticed that all of Ford's
programs are on NBC. That's because he
is also a member of the NBC staff, which
adds to his duties as well as preventing
him from accepting a commercial program
heard on any other network. He an-
nounces NBC sustaining programs when
he has time, which isn't often, and works
creatively behind the scenes for the net-
work, frequently helping to write or pro-
duce programs. In addition, he averages
a couple of appearances a week at benefit
performances for different charities.

With all that activity, it's no wonder
that Ford doesn't see much of his family,
which consists of a wife and two children,
a nine-year-old girl and a five-year-old
boy. He gets a chance to eat dinner at
home once a week, because his free time
is from late Friday night until the middle
of Sunday afternoon. Six months out of
every year he practically lives on his
boat, a sixty-foot cruiser, which he keeps
on Long Island Sound. He likes it there
because no one can telephone him.

You'd think that he would live in terror
of forgetting one of his studio appoint-
ments, but he says they're so deeply in-
grained in his consciousness that remem-
bering them is like remembering to eat.
Frequently, when he has an appointment
that isn't part of his daily routine, he sends
himself a note in the mail to remind him-
self to keep it. He insists that his memory
is very bad.

•^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

July 25: Raymond Gram Swing returns
tonight from his trip to England.

August 16: Jessica Dragonette returns to
the air tonight as feminine singing star
of The Saturday Night Serenade.

<
I-

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SATURDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:00 CBS: News of Europe
8:00 NBC: News

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red: Hank Lawsen

NBC-Red: Dick Leibert

8:45 NBC-Blue: String Ensemble
8:45 NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

CBS: Press News
9:00 NBC-Blue: Breakfast Club
9:00 NBC-Red: News

NBC-Red: Market Basket

9:30 CBS: Old Dirt Dobber

9:30 NBC-Red: New England Music

10:00 ens Burl Ives

10:00 NBC-Blue: Continentales

10:00 NBC-Red: Let's Swing

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NBC-Red: Happy Jack

CBS: Gold if You Find It
NBC-Red: America The Free

NBC-Red: Lincoln Highway
CBS: The Life of Riley

CBS: Dorothy Kilgallen
NBC-Blue: Our Barn
NBC-Red: Rinso Variety Show

CBS: Hillbilly Champions

CBS: Country Journal
NBC-Red: Consumer Time

CBS: Stars Over Hollywood
NBC-Blue: Farm Bureau
NBC-Red: Call to Youth

CBS: Jobs for Defense
MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Let's Pretend

MBS: We Are Always Young

MBS: Government Girl

1:30 CBS: Brush Creek Follies
1:30 MBS: Front Page Farrell
1:30 NBC-Blue: Cleveland Calling

i«MBS: I'll Find My Way

2:00 NBC-Blue: Johnny Long Orch.

2:30 CBS: Of Men and Books
2:30 NBC-Red: Bright Idea Club

3:00 CBS: Dorian String Quartet
3:00 NBC-Blue: Indiana Indigo
3:00 NBC-Red: Nature Sketches

NBC-Red: Golden Melodies

CBS: Calling Pan-America
NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC- Red: Listen to Lytell

NBC-Red: A Boy, a Girl, and a Band

10:30
10:30

11:00
11:05

11:30
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4:00
4:00
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4:30

5:00 CBS: Matinee at Meadowbrook
5-00 NBC-Blue: Tommy Dorsey
5:00 NBC-Red: The World Is Yours

NBC-Blue: Dance Music

6:30 CBS: Elmer Davis

6:30 NBC-Red: Religion in the News

6:45 CBS: The World Today
6-45'NBC-Blue: Edward Tomlinson
6:45 N w Red. Paul Douglas

7:00 CBS: People's Platform
7:00 NBC-Blue: Message of Israel
7:00 NBC-Red: Defense for America

7.30'cBS: Wayne King

7J30 NBC-Blue: Little Ol' Hollywood

^■SO.NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

g.Oo'CBS: Guy Lombardo

8-oo NBC-Blue: Boy Meets Band

gJ00 NBC- Red: Latitude Zero

8:30 CBS: City Desk

8:30 NBC-Blue: Bishop and the Gargoyle

8:30 NBC-Red: Truth or Consequences

9-00 CBS: YOUR HIT PARADE
9-00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter
9-00 NBC-Blue: Spin and Win
9:00 NBC-Red: National Barn Dance

9:30 NBC-Blue: NBC Summer Symphony

9:45 CBS: Saturday Night Serenade

10:00 MBS: Chicago Concert

10:15 CBS: Public Affairs

10:30 CBS: Girl About Town

10:45.1 I'.:-.. News of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Bitter Sweet

(Continued from page 17)

on safer ground.

"The Carruthers don't know I told
you they ordered all that potato salad
I hope?" Mrs. Schmaltz would ask
anxiously.

"No, they don't. And I'd have known
about their party anyway," Mary
Margaret would explain reassuringly.
"My scout at the dairy told me they'd
ordered quarts of extra cream."

Even then Mary Margaret was on
her way to becoming the famous col-
umnist of the radio. Even then she
was bringing substance to the dreams
she and her grandfather, who had
been her childhood companion, had
dreamed as they had walked through
ripening wheat fields in the summer
and rocked beside the kitchen stove
in the winter.

Grandpa McBride, who had spent
his life teaching school, had wanted
to be a writer. His son, caring noth-
ing for books, content to be a farmer
and to swap farms for change and
excitement had been a disappoint-
ment to him for this reason. Mary
Margaret was different. From the
time she could talk she had handled
words as if they were living things.
At four years of age she had learned
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in
Greek and in Latin. And there was
nothing she en-
joyed more than

to have her —

grandfather read
Dickens to her.

"Remember,
Mary Margaret,"
he would shake
his finger and
say, "You're go-
ing to be a writ-
er! Don't let
anyone change
this for you!
You'll be un-
happy if you do
and make them
unhappy too.
Same way I
have! Some —

like you and me —

— are born with
notions that

make them strangers to those they
love most . . .

"And it's a funny thing, child, it's
a funny thing . . . If we put what
we think on paper people will read
it, even repeat it. Whereas if we only
say what we think people will laugh
and tell us we're crazy . . .

His finger would wag faster, faster.
"Remember now," he'd say, "you're
going to be a writer — whatever
happens!"

IT wasn't only the things Grandpa
McBride had said which influenced
Mary Margaret as she grew older.
Her urge to write about the things she
thought and the things she saw con-
stantly grew stronger.

One day Mary Margaret and Bill
sat together on a hillside to which
spring had come. It was warm in the
sun. Clover sweetened the air.
White clouds moved lazily against a
bright sky.

"You're coming back next fall,"
Bill said suddenly, gripping her hand.
"You're sure you won't decide it's too
hard working and studying at the
same time — and quit!"

SEPTEMBER, 1941

She touched his face gently. "I'll
be back, Bill," she promised. "I don't
mind working and studying at the
same time. I have a great-aunt who'd
pay my way, if I would let her. But
she wants me to study to be Lady
Principal of the little college her hus-
band endowed and I told her I couldn't
do that — that I had to go to New York
and be a writer . . .

Bill laughed triumphantly. "And
now you're going to marry a poor
engineer," he said. "Now you're not
going to be a writer at all."

She had meant to tell him she
planned to go to New York when she
was graduated, for a little while any-
way. But words failed her. The
loneliness they would know during
the summer holidays already was
heavy upon them. And she didn't
want to send Bill away brooding,
doubting her love, closing his heart
to her.

They turned to each other. Her
mouth was like the wild roses that
grew along the Missouri roadsides.
His arms, strong and tender, closed
round her and shut out the world.

Semesters and holidays gathered
themselves into years. And the love
between Mary Margaret and Bill,
never idyllic, always young and

Be Sure to Reserve Your Copy of

THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF RADIO MIRROR

In Order to Complete Your Album of Living Portraits of

PEPPER YOUNG'S FAMILY

You'll Find Beautiful Photographs of

PEPPER YOUNG, MR. BRADLEY. BIFF, LINDA BENTON AND HATTIE

passionate, grew more and more
demanding.

When they returned to the Univer-
sity for their Junior year they met,
by arrangement, at the Junction. And
they walked through the quiet streets
of the town, drenched in love.

"We can't go on like this," Bill said
at last, desperately. "We just can't!
Let's get married! Tonight!"

"Let's!" said Mary Margaret. She
found it impossible now to consider
any life, any dream, any plan that
would take her beyond Bill's arms.

Up one street and down another
they searched. But all the little par-
sonages that stood beside the churches
were dark. And, at last, they had to
run to the station to catch the last
train.

From then on, however, Mary Mar-
garet dreamed of nothing but marry-
ing Bill, having dinner ready when
he came home from work, having four
children — two boys and two girls —
who combined the best features she
and Bill possessed and were brilliant
to boot, tending a little garden in
which lupin and hollyhocks and del-
phiniums grew.

There was a rebellious group at
the University of Missouri who talked
liberally about liberal things. Bill
disapproved of them. But Mary Mar-
garet, interested in everything and
everybody, found them fascinating.

It was the evening before gradua-
tion that she came into the delicates-
sen store looking weary. "You're not
ill?" Bill asked anxiously.

"Just sleepy," she told him. "I sat
up all night drinking coffee and
listening to the Liberals hold forth
about life and love."

Bill's face hardened. "I don't want
to hear about it," he said. "I'm very
sorry you had anything to do with
them. Where's your pride?"

"My pride?" Mary Margaret looked
bewildered. "My pride, Bill?"

YOU'RE going to be my wife!" His
eyes were blazing. "And I don't
want you hobnobbing with people like
that. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Mary Margaret told
him. "But I make no promise. Be-
cause I know I'll want to hear what
all kinds of people think about all
kinds of things — as long as I live."

They made up their quarrel, of

course. It was a trifling thing. But

trifles can be important. A grain of

sand can stop a

watch. And

- Mary Margaret,

prompted by

that quarrel to

remember the

things her

grandfather had

said to her, kept

thinking about

them again and

again.

"Remember
you're going to
be a writer," she
could hear him
saying. "Don't
let anyone
change this for

you. You'll be

- ^^^^^-^— ^^— unhappy if you
do and make
them unhappy."
More than once that summer Bill
visiting the McBrides. accused Mary
Margaret of loving him less. She pro-
tested, earnestly, that this wasn't true.
This led to quarrels which corrob-
orated all the things Mary Margaret
had begun to fear for Bill and herself.
And when autumn came she left for
New York.

It wasn't an easy thing to do for she
took her heart with her. And it was
while she banged fiercely on her
typewriter to banish the image of
Bill's dear face and to forget she was
insupportably lonely that, slowly but
surely, she found newspaper success.
"You'll come back one day and I'll
be waiting," Bill wrote her.

She did go home at last. And when
their eyes met — her's radiantly brown
and his smoky blue — the old dizzy
sweetness was there still. So were
other things, alas — her success and
his resentment of it — to cause more
quarrels and part them again.

For a long time now they haven't
seen each other. However, one of
the first things Bill ever said to Mary
Margaret was "This is forever!"
And Forever is a long, long time!

Sixth Avenue, she forced herself to
check the rising fear within her. She
would need every bit of self control
she possessed to face the situation
which lay ahead.

Nora began to climb the last flight
of steps. At the top she paused and
listened again and heard only the
hammering of her own heart. She
knocked softly on the door. There
was no answer. She knocked again
and then, turning the knob, she en-
tered the room.

Barbara was standing at the win-
dow peering down into the street.
An uncomfortable looking bed was
pushed against one wall and in the
corner farthest from the door there
was a table on which stood a wicker
clothes basket.

At the click of the door Barbara
looked up and for a moment mother
and daughter looked at each other
without speaking. Then with a re-
lieved, "Mother! You did come. 1
knew you would, somehow." Barbara
went to Nora's arms. There was no
hysteria, no sobbing, but in those few
whispered words Nora sensed all of
Barbara's great longing and need for
her. nn ,

It was Barbara who pulled away
from their embrace. "You— you've
never seen your grandson," she fal-
tered and led Nora to the table in the
corner In his clothes basket bed,
Baby Sandy lay asleep. Nora leaned
over the basket, devouring the tiny
sleeping figure with her eyes, then
cautiously, gently, she put out her
hand and touched a tiny pink fist. At
last she turned to Barbara.

"The first time I held you in my
arms, Barbara," she said softly, "I
thought I could never ask anything
better of life than that— just to hold
you in my arms and know you were
my baby. But now — well, now I know
a woman has never lived, completely,
until she has seen her first grand-
child."

BARBARA smiled mistily and Nora
realized for the first time how thin
she had grown and how great an effort
she was making to hold herself in
check. In her finely sculptured face
her eyes looked like the eyes of a
child who has been brutally punished
for something it doesn't understand.
That bewildered suffering look went
straight to Nora's heart and she said,
as she had said to Joan earlier in the
evening, "Begin at the beginning."

Slowly at first, then quickly, jerkily,
Barbara began to talk, interrupting
her own words every few minutes to
run to the window and watch for
Alex's arrival as she had been watch-
ing when Nora entered the room.
Sometimes she repeated in one breath
what she had said in a preceding one,
without knowing that it was repeti-
tion. Sometimes she sat, inert, with
her smooth, dark head bowed; some-
times she sprang up and paced the
Boor. But from her disjointed sen-
tencea Nora managed to piece the
heartbreaking facts together.

One tact stood out above all the
rest. Barbara still loved Alex — but
believed that he no longer loved
her. If he loved her, she told Nora,
he would prove it by pulling himself
together, stopping his drinking, and
getting a job. And if he didn't promise
to do thai be would know that every-

Orphans of Divorce

(Continued from page 16)

thing was over between them and she
would leave him tonight, as she had
told her father she would do.

"But I don't want to leave him,
Mother," she sobbed. "I'd stay with
him forever, no matter how poor we
were, if he only loved me."

And it was with this heartbroken
cry of Barbara's still echoing in her
ears that Nora waited in the shabby
little room for Alex's return. It hadn't
been difficult to persuade Barbara to
leave so that she could talk to Alex
alone.

She had waited nearly half an hour
when she heard a fumbling step in
the hall and a moment later Alex
entered the room. He wasn't the smil-
ing, confident young man she had
known before she chose to disappear
out of her children's lives; he was
older now and eyes, as bewildered as
Barbara's own, looked from the mask
of defeat which his face had become.
He had obviously been drinking, but
the unexpected sight of Nora, bent
over Baby Sandy's basket bed in the
corner, shocked him into sobriety.

WHY — why, Mother Nora," he
stammered in amazement. "I
didn't expect to find you here." Then
so sharply, so frantically that Nora
could almost feel his fright, he rasped
out, "What's happened? Where's Bar-
bara?"

"Barbara's all right," she said re-
assuringly. "She'll be back in a few
minutes."

"Thank God!" The words came in
the slow whisper of exhaustion and
Alex sank wearily into a chair. "I've
been nearly crazy, worrying about
her. You haven't any idea what she's
been going through, Mother Nora."

"I think I have, Alex," Nora an-
swered slowly, "maybe even more of
an idea than you have. We had a
long talk tonight. I know she's wor-
ried and unhappy, just as you are."
She hesitated, searching for words.
So much depended on making Alex

Saying goodbye before their vaca-
tion are Jackie Kelk who plays the
part of Homer and Charita Bauer
who's Mary in The Aldrich Family.
The program returns August 21st.

understand Barbara's wretchedness
without adding to his own. "In some
ways I think she's even unhappier
than you are because — well, because,
Alex," she added gently, "she thinks
you don't love her any more."

"Thinks I don't love herl" Alex re-
peated with bewildered emphasis.
"Oh, no, Mother Nora. You've got it
all wrong. It's Barbara who doesn't
love me. How could she?" he added
harshly. "I haven't any money — can't
take care of her — " his voice mounted
and suddenly he was pouring out all
the fear and bitterness of the past few
weeks.

HIS WORDS, like Barbara's, told
Nora of a mind tortured by despair
almost to the breaking point. As
though glad of a long-denied chance
to talk he described his first frantic
efforts to get a job on which he could
support Barbara and the baby com-
fortably, his discouragement when he
failed to find one and his attempt to
get rid of that discouragement by
drinking. He confessed his humilia-
tion at Cyril's refusal to help; his even
greater humiliation when Barbara
told him that she would try to find
work. And in every word he revealed
his devotion to his wife and baby and
his self-reproach because he hadn't
been able to take care of them prop-
erly.

"I've failed them," he said miser-
ably. "Failed them when they needed
me most. Sometimes," his eyes were
haunted, "sometimes I think it would
be better for Barbara to take the baby
and go to her father. He'd give them
a home, even though he hasn't any
use for me."

Nora, with a fervent prayer that he
would never need to know how terri-
fyingly close that possibility was, said,
"I know how you feel, Alex. I've felt
all day that I had failed Barbara, too.
And I know the horrible sick feeling
you must have had when you lost
everything — lost the security you'd
always had and thought you always
would have. The same thing happened
to me, you know. But you're really
luckier than I was. I had nothing
but memories to fall back on and
you have Barbara and Sandy."

"And I can't even buy them a decent
meal," the words ripped out of his
throat and then he fell into brooding
silence.

After a little while Nora began to
try to picture for him Barbara's side
of the situation, repeating everything
her daughter had cried out to her such
a short time before. She tried to make
him see that it wasn't losing his
money or his failure to find a good
job that was causing Barbara's un-
happiness so much as the way he was
letting these things affect him. She
talked calmly and sympathetically,
trying to build up self-confidence in
place of the defeat which was slowly
destroying him, trying to quiet his
fears about the future, trying to con-
vince him that that future, no matter
how poor they might be, would have
no terrors for Barbara if only she
could be sure that he still loved her.

"If you will just take any job you
can get," she urged him, "no matter
how small it is, Barbara will know
that you are doing everything you
can for her and the baby and doing
(Continued on page 48)

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it because you love her — and then
nothing else will matter. Just any-
thing, Alex!" she cried. "Surely you
can find something!"

"Oh, sure I can!" Alex's self-loath-
ing brought tears to Nora's eyes. "I
had a job offered to me today. A fine
job," he went on savagely. "Driv-
ing a milk wagon at eighteen dollars
a week. And you certainly don't
think we could live on that!"

Nora, recalling the days before Joan
was born, when she was caring for
Barbara and Dick on no more than
that, said positively that they could,
but Alex refused to believe that it
would be possible. "Barbara would
have to do her own housework," he
said with finality.

OF COURSE she would," Nora
agreed. "That's just what I've
been trying to tell you, Alex. Barbara
would do anything — wash dishes,
scrub floors, anything — and be proud
to do it for you and Sandy."

For a moment hope flared in Alex's
eyes, then it died out leaving defeat
again. "It just wouldn't work, Mother
Nora," he said and she saw then that
he was hopelessly embittered, re-
signed to the fact that he was a failure

(Continued from page 46)
that Nora had worked, and then she
drew her mother close to share in
their embrace.

The next few days were the happi-
est and busiest Nora ever remembered.
True to his promise, Alex took the
milkman's job and then began the
search for a small furnished apart-
ment. Nora drew on her meagre sav-
ings to tide them over until Alex
received his first salary, and Barbara
and Alex -then insisted that since she
had a financial interest, as well as a
personal one, in the success of their
plan, she would have to go with them
to find a home. So the three of them
set out, climbing miles of stairs and
dimlit halls until they found one
which would do. It wasn't much of an
apartment, compared with the Park
Avenue duplex they had lived in ever
since their marriage, but its two rooms
were miraculously clean and sunny
and the furniture, though battered,
was comfortable.

And as if this new-found happiness
of Barbara's and Alex's weren't
enough to gladden her heart, there
was Joan, who, now that she had
found her mother, was determined to
spend every possible minute with her.
Every minute, that is, she could spare

S^f/Ve^oZ-

NORMAN FIELD — the busy Hollywood actor you hear frequently as
the family doctor in One Man's Family and as Charlie McCarthy's
school principal. Norman came to radio from the stage, where he
played in support of May Robson, Florence Reed, Marjorie Rambeau,
Edward Everett Horton and others. He has been in pictures, too,
but prefers radio, and has done character roles in nearly all the big
network programs emanating from Hollywood. He and his wife,
actress Mary Gayer Field, live in a lovely home which Norman
designed himself, in Monterey Village, San Fernando Valley. He was
a leading spirit in the early days of the American Federation of
Radio Artists, when his help endeared him to all his fellow actors.

and that the best thing for Barbara
would be to leave him and take the
baby with her. But even in the face
of his resignation she couldn't believe
that this was the end of things for
them.

"Alex, Alex," she cried, "don't throw
away this chance without even trying
it. Take the job, try it for just a
month. See if you and Barbara can't
manage for that long. But don't break
Barbara's heart and your own, too,
by giving up while you still have a
chance."

She turned away then, knowing that
she could say no more. Whatever de-
cision Alex made, he would have to
make alone, out of his own weakness
or his own strength. She felt the same
dreadful suspense she had always felt
when one of the children was sick
and she waited for the doctor's ver-
dict. And when at last Alex said,
"All right, Mother Nora, I'll try it if
Barbara will," she felt herself go
limp with relief.

Winn Barbara returned a little later
she found Nora and Alex talking to-
gether as serenely as though this visit
of Nora's was a perfectly natural,
casual one She stopped in the door-
way, as ii unable to believe that this
room which had held so much un-
happiness, could now hold such peace.
It wasn't until Alex pulled her into
his arms in the old adoring way that
she was able to understand the miracle

from Michael Windgate. For there
was no doubt they were in love with
each other, and their romance was
an ever-growing joy to Nora. Every
word they spoke, every glance they
exchanged, showed the depth of their
love and strengthened Nora's convic-
tion that they were right for each
other. Sometimes she wondered guilt-
ily what Cyril would say if he dis-
covered she was encouraging a love
affair he didn't even know existed,
but against that guilt was the knowl-
edge that it was she who had per-
suaded them not to plunge headlong
into marriage but to wait until Joan
was of age and Michael was earning
a little more money.

As the weeks went on she watched
Barbara and Alex, too, find themselves
again. It was not easy for them.
Sometimes, she could tell, the struggle
to make both ends meet was heart-
breaking; but some seed of determina-
tion had taken root in Alex the night
Nora had sought him out, and now
he refused to be discouraged.

It was in these happy weeks that
Nora became, in a sense, reunited
with her son. Not that she ever saw
him. But between Joan and Dick
there was an unusual affection, an un-
derstanding greater than that between
most brothers and sisters, and thus
Joan was able to bring her news of
the boy so vivid she could almost
imagine he stood before her.

It was Joan who told her of Dick's
twenty-first birthday, and of the party
his stepmother had given for him in
celebration; Joan who revealed excit-
edly that Cyril's birthday present to
his son had been $25,000 in cash.
Nora's eyes misted when she heard
this last: making Dick independent
when he came of age had been one
of the things she and Cyril had
dreamed of in the old days. She was
made absurdly happy by learning that
Cyril had not forgotten.

Dick had left the house on Fifth
Avenue, Joan told her one day, and
had moved into an apartment with
another young man, a Stuart Fields.
No, it was nothing unexpected, she
said, although she seemed oddly
troubled. Cyril had thought it would
be good for Dick to have a place of
his own, learn to live away from the
family.

"But — " Joan's voice trailed off, and
one finger traced the pattern of the
brocade on the couch where she sat.
"I don't know, Mother. I thought it
was funny when Juliet gave him that
birthday party — she's never taken any
interest in Dick before. And now —
well, this Stuart Fields is a friend of
hers, not of Dick's or mine. I don't
like him."

A germ of uneasiness stirred in
Nora, but she ignored it and laughed.
"Dick must, or he wouldn't be sharing
an apartment with him," she said.
"Besides, what difference does it
make if he's a friend of Juliet's?"

"Oh — I don't know," Joan admitted.
"It just seems funny, that's all. Stu's
so — so Broadway, if you know what
I mean. Not the sort of person Dick
would pick out for himself."

Nora said indulgently, "Young men,
when they're just getting started in
the world, pick out all kinds of friends,
Joan. They like to think they're so-
phisticated— in the swim. So I
wouldn't worry about Dick."

DUT even Nora was amazed, a few
lJ weeks later, when Joan reported
that Stuart Fields was persuading
Dick to invest five thousand dollars in
a prizefighter.

"His name's Patsy Norris and he's
never fought here in the East,"
Joan said rapidly, trying to tell all her
story at once. "But Stu says he saw
him working — that's what he calls it,
'working' — in San Francisco and he
says Patsy's going to be a champion.
And for five thousand dollars Dick
can buy up his contract and make
lots of money. But I think Dick's
crazy to listen to him, because Juliet
is mixed up in it, too!"

"Joan! Darling, wait a minute,"
Nora said. "Let me get all this
straight. What do you mean, Juliet's
mixed up in it?"

"Juliet and Stu and that friend of
Stu's — Tiger Kelly, he's another prize-
fighter— they've all been telling Dick
what a sure thing it is, and how much
they'd like to buy the contract if they
only had the money. And I think
they've got Dick just about con-
vinced!"

"Well," Nora said in a tone that
sounded unconvincing even to her-
self, "it's Dick's money, Joan, and
Dick's affair."

She did not want to interfere in
Dick's life. Already she had been
forced by circumstances to break two-
thirds of the promise she had made
to herself: she was seeing Joan and
Barbara. That was good. It brought
(Continued on page 52)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

She's Famous-She's Beautiful

Popular Girls Everywhere -^Fmmm0t
take her tip...

its as simple

SEPTEMBER, 1941

CLING TO THAT

By DR. GRACE GREGORY

SUMMER is drawing to a close,
and girls are coming back from
their vacations delightfully-
tanned. They ought to be looking
wonderful, after all the fun and sun.
But sometimes the effect is not so
good. Wrong shades of powder, care-
lessly chosen and unskilfully applied,
can make the prettiest tan unbecom-
ing. It takes real artistry to keep
one's powder looking just right
through the weeks of early autumn
while the complexion is changing
from various shades of tan back to
normal.

Louise King has just the kind of
artistry it takes to look always as
beautiful as she really is. Louise is
the star on Your Hit Parade heard
on CBS Saturday nights. She began
her career when she was thirteen,
singing the leading role in a high
school operetta. Then and there she
made up her mind that she was go-
ing right to the top in music. That
meant years of hard work when most
youngsters are looking only for good
times after school. After a sound
musical education in her home city,
Chicago, she was the vocalist with
Jules Alberti's orchestra.

To make a long story short, after
many successes in the musical world,
Louise King went to Toronto, and
became one of the best loved radio
singers of Canada. Now we have her
back again, and very proud of her
we all are.

I wish you could all see her, a
tall slim girl whose every movement
is grace. Her golden blonde hair is

RADIO MIRROR

* *

IIOMI^IIIMY

arranged simply to bring out her
finely chiseled features. Her make
up is so perfect that one never thinks
of it. Which means that Louise gave
some intelligent thought to selecting
just the right shade of powder.

The first thing to consider in se-
lecting your powder says Miss King
is the actual coloring of your skin
after you have carefully cleansed it
with a good cleansing cream fol-
lowed by soap and water to remove
all traces of old cosmetics. Your
powder should always be just a shade
darker than your skin.

That means that from now on, as
your tan wears off, you will be con-
stantly changing your powder.

Next consider your general type —
your hair and eyes, whether your
skin is mature or youthful, whether
there are any blemishes to conceal.
Obviously a golden blonde or a red-
head will wear warmer tints of pow-
der than, say, an ash blonde or a
brownette. And the mature or blem-
ished skin will find the darker pow-
ders not so revealing as the delicately
tinted ones.

AND now to the question of how to
** apply your powder. But wait a
minute— let me see your powder puff!
Is it as dainty as that exquisite pow-
der deserves? You will never get
that petal-soft look good powder gives

Louise King, star of Your Hit Parade,
changes her powder with the seasons.

the face if you are going to dab it on
with an old puff that you have used
for some other powder. Puffs get dis-
colored with traces of cosmetics. They
should be changed frequently, or
washed.

If you cannot remember to keep on
hand a fresh puff devoted to each
shade of powder, there are always the
little cotton pads which have so many
uses in beauty care.

Take a fresh puff or pad, and apply
your powder to lower cheeks and chin
first. Of all things, do not begin with
that too-much-powdered nose! The
nose comes last. Work upwards. And
finally, remember that you have a
neck. Powder from dress line to hair
line, if you want a natural effect.

Next, the powder brush. That is
important. I promise you it is not a
mere gadget. A good powder brush
lasts for years, with frequent wash-
ings. It makes all the difference in
the world. Having patted on your
powder generously, you brush up and
out, clearing the lines of brow, mouth
and nose of any excess. Now the dry
rouge, blending skilfully with the
powder. Powder again, and again use
the powder brush.

There you are, with a lovely flower-
petal complexion. The right color lip-
stick, mascara for the lashes, and
mascara or pencil for the brows, and
out you go, ready to be admired.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROH

Off tO ask a personal question. These girls are
all professional investigators. Between May 23rd
and June 9th of this year, they conducted a soft-
ness test in Erie, Pa. Over a thousand women
made the test. They were asked to feel two nap-
kins— and say which was softer. One was a lead-
ing brand of "layer-type" napkin. The other was
Modess, a "fluff-type" napkin. All these women
were users of the "layer-type" napkin. Yet 870
out of 1036 said, "Modess is softer"!

These Girls Ask Questions for a Living!

In Erie, Pa., they found that 870 out of
1036 users of another napkin said, "Modess is softer!"

They didn't know which was which. Women mak-
ing the test had no way of knowing which
napkin they were voting for. All identifying
marks were completely concealed. The inves-
tigator simply asked each woman to feel both
napkins and say which was softer. And Modess
won— 870 to 166!

Investigator Arlene Larson relaxes while checking
her reports. They so overwhelmingly favored
Modess that each investigator was asked to
sign an affidavit swearing her report was accu-
rate and that she had conducted each test in
an impartial manner. The investigators them-
selves didn't know who sponsored the test.

Astonishing figures. When the results were added
up, 870 out of the 1036 "layer-type" users
had said, after feeling both napkins, that the
"fluff-type" napkin (Modess) was softer! Isn't
it amazing that women could go on using one
type of napkin without realizing that another
and newer type might be softer?

Does softer to the touch mean softer in use? That is some-
thing you can answer only by actually trying Modess.
Buy a box of Modess today. Learn for yourself if it gives
you the same comfort that has won millions of loyal users.
You can buy Modess in the regular size, or Junior Modess
— a slightly narrower napkin — at your favorite store.

SEPTEMBER, 1941

Modess

870 OUT OF 1036 ERIE, PA. WOMEN SAID— "IT'S SOFTER!"

her great happiness to make them,
once more, part of herself. But Dick
was different. He was a boy — a man,
really — and he would soon be taking
his place beside Cyril in the Worth-
ington firm. It was desperately im-
portant that no influence should come
between him and his father.

Her thoughts turned suddenly aside.
Why was she trying to fool herself?
There was another reason why she
did not want to interfere in this mat-
ter— a very personal reason. It was
simply that interference would be one
more step along the path she had set
out upon the night she first visited
Barbara and Alex in their tenement
apartment — that path which led di-
rectly and inexorably to another
meeting with Cyril Worthington. And
her soul turned sick at the thought
of such a meeting.

(Continued from page 48)
tall double doors on each side, the
whole scene of heavy, ostentatious
wealth — it was all exactly what she
would have expected. Then she was
facing Cyril in the library and mem-
ory flooded her. Not memory alone,
either, but some other emotion which
had nothing to do with memory, and
emotion which had not existed in Nora
Kelly Worthington but was born now
in Nora Knight.

For this man who had been her
husband for twenty-five years, had
become a stranger to her. The face
which once had been more familiar
to her than her own, which once was
dearer to her than any face in the
world — she felt now as if she had
never seen it before. And seeing Cyril
as a stranger, Nora knew that for
the first time she was seeing him as he
really was. What in his young fea-

S^/^MZ-

EDA HEINEMANN— who plays Doctor Molly on CBS' Joyce Jordan,
Girl Interne serial. Eda was christened Ida when she was born in
Yokohama, Japan, but when she grew up she disliked the pronuncia-
tion of the long I and changed the first letter to E. Her family
moved to New York when Eda was still a baby, and she studied in
New York schools and went to Smith College. Her college degree
has frequently come in handy when stage jobs weren't available,
making it possible for her to teach at Wellesley, Vassar, Western
Reserve and Lake Erie College. She's also coached Katharine
Cornell in Latin. Right now, besides acting on the air, Eda is a fea-
tured player in the Broadway stage success, "Watch on the Rhine."

But there was something so strange
about this business of the prizefighter,
Patsy Norris! Try as she would, she
could not see it as merely a financial
transaction which might or might not
be ill-advised. An instinct too deep for
logic told her it was more important
than that.

At last, hardly knowing why she did
so, she asked Gregory Pearson, her
employer, to make inquiries through
his Pacific Coast office about Patsy
Norris. And when, after twenty-four
hours, the telegraphed answer arrived,
saying that there was no record what-
ever of a fighter of that name, she
could hardly be surprised. It was as if
she had known all along there was
fraud here — deliberate, cheap fraud.

IN HER own room, she stood at the
window, staring unseeingly at the
scarlet-leaved trees below. She knew
what she must do now, well enough.
It was quite plain. Stuart Fields was
Juliet Worthington's friend; Juliet
had helped him in urging Dick to in-
vest money in a non-existent fighter.
Then she, too, must be implicated in
the fraud — though for what reason,
Nora could not imagine. It was hard to
believe that Cyril Worthington's wife
needed money so badly she would
steal it from an inexperienced boy.

Moving wearily, she put on coat
and hat, picked up her bag and went
downstairs and out into the street.
To the driver of the cab that answered
her hail she gave the address of Cyril
Worthington's house.

When she entered the house where
she had never been before she felt
as though she were seeing for the
first time in reality something she
had seen again and again in dreams —
the long panelled hall with its mas-
sive staircase curving at the end, the

tures she had recognized as confidence
and determination, age had turned
into arrogance and greed. Strangely,
she did not hate him, although he had
hurt her so. Desolately, she could only
pity him for his short-comings.

£~YRIL — " she began, and stopped,
^- for a slim figure in a white hostess
gown had risen from a deep chair near
Cyril's desk. It was Juliet, her sleek
curving body taut with the same hos-
tility that flashed from her amber
eyes.

"Well, Nora, how are you?" the
younger woman said insolently. "Since
Cyril seems to be too overcome to say
hello to you himself."

"I'm well," Nora said levelly. "I
came to talk to Cyril about Dick."
There, she thought, is Juliet's cue.
She may stay or not, as she likes.

But while she waited, Juliet made
no move to go. Only a spark flared
and died in her eyes. It might have
been fear; it might have been no more
than wariness.

"Dick?" Cyril said in a husky, sur-
prised voice. "What about him? Have
you been seeing him?"

"No — though perhaps I should have.
He's being swindled by Stuart Fields."

"Swindled. . . ?" he repeated daz-
edly, and then turned to Juliet. "Why,
Fields is a friend of yours, isn't he?"

It seemed to Nora that he was ask-
ing the question only in defense of
Fields, as if to say that if he were a
friend of Juliet's he could not be
guilty of swindling. But Juliet read
his tone differently, and she answered
as if it had been an accusation.

"Well, what if he is? I don't know
everything he's doing," she said truc-
ulently. "Besides, I don't believe it."

"He wants Dick to invest five thou-
sand dollars in a prizefighter that

doesn't even exist," Nora said quietly.
"I investigated, and got this telegram
an hour ago." She held the slip of
paper out to Cyril, watched the dark
blood of anger mount into his lean
cheeks as he read it.

"The young idiot!" he muttered.
"Juliet, you've been seeing a good
deal of Dick. Do you know anything
about this?"

"Oh — I don't know," she said im-
patiently. "Maybe — something or
other was said about a fighter out on
the Pacific Coast — "

Cyril's hand went out to the tele-
phone. "I'm going to talk to Fields
about this right now," he said grimly.

"No!"

The single word was almost a
scream — forced out of Juliet by terror.
At once she recovered herself, but
Cyril's eyes had narrowed.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Let me talk to him — I'll fix it all
up. There's no reason you should be
bothered with all this nonsense. It's
probably just a misunderstanding — "

Her voice trailed off. Into the si-
lence Cyril's words dropped like
stones.

"Why don't you want me to talk
to Fields? What are you afraid of?"

Juliet expelled her breath in a hiss-
ing sound. "I'll tell you myself," she
said. "It'll be a relief to tell you!
I'm sick of pretending — pretending to
love you, pretending to be the dutiful
wife, when all the time I've hated the
sight of you!"

SHE LEANED forward, hands clutch-
ing the edge of the desk, eyes
staring, spitting hatred into his face
like some enraged jungle animal.
Cyril shrank back as if her fury were
something physical.

"For months I've been in love with
Tiger Kelly — meeting him when you
thought I was out shopping. Stu found
out about it and threatened to tell
you if I didn't give him money. For
a while I did, but then you gave Dick
that twenty-five thousand and I
couldn't see why I should go on shell-
ing out to Stu when he could get it
from Dick. So we cooked up the
prizefighter scheme together. Yes, to-
gether! And we'd have got away with
it, too, if your precious Nora hadn't
interfered !"

"Juliet . . . Juliet . . ." Cyril's voice
was high, fretful, like that of an old
man, and Nora realized that in un-
conscious sympathy she had drawn
close to him, laid her hand upon his
shoulder.

"Juliet!" the girl mimicked veno-
mously. "Thank God it's over now.
I'm through with you. Tiger's mak-
ing plenty of money and he's been
trying to talk me into going to Reno.
And I'm going. I haven't anything
to lose now."

Cyril put out one hand in a word-
less effort to stop her. But she ig-
nored the gesture. Her clicking heels
carried her swiftly out of the room.

When the sound of her footsteps
had died away Cyril slowly raised his
head. His arrogance was gone now
and his face seemed drawn, his body
shrunken as from long illness. He
seemed completely unaware of Nora
and at last she turned away, unable
any longer to bear the sight of his
pain-glazed eyes, the tortured, noise-
less way his lips kept repeating
Juliet's name.

Her sudden movement, slight
though it was, roused him and he said,

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

as though compelling himself to re-
member something out of a long dead
past, "You needn't worry about Dick,
Nora — needn't worry about him any
more. I'll take care of everything."

"Thank you, Cyril." She started to
leave then, but he stopped her.

"You've been seeing the children,
haven't you?"

"Barbara and Joan," she answered
gently. "They seemed to need me —
Barbara especially."

"I should have realized that, when
Barbara refused to come home, and
when Joan told me how Alex had
pulled himself together. I've been
thinking of giving him a job in the
office. He and Dick could start in
together." _

His voice held a wistful note as
though he were conscious not only
of his previous neglect of his family
but also of the fact that with Juliet
gone he would need their companion-
ship, and he looked at Nora, pleading
silently for her sympathy. But before
she could answer, there came the un-
mistakable click of Juliet's heels on
the staircase, and instantly he was
again oblivious of Nora's presence. He
leaned forward in his chair, his eyes
no longer dull but alight with hope.
The footsteps continued determinedly
across the hall. Then came the soft
faint thud that meant the closing of
the outer door and a moment later the
roar of a taxi getting under way.
And then, for the second time that
evening, Nora saw Cyril crumple
under defeat.

SHE saw too, as she had seen but a
few minutes before, his unspoken
appeal for sympathy, for encourage-
ment to bear the loneliness that lay
ahead of him. She felt a sharp stab
of compassion . . . but the past was
past. Cyril must fight his loneliness
without her help.

She was walking slowly, thought-
fully down the outer steps of the
house when a taxi drew up and a tall
young man jumped out. She caught
her breath sharply — knowing that it
must be Dick, unable to believe that
it was really he, so long-legged, so
vital and decisive in his movements,
with all the adolescent coltishness she
remembered gone. She stepped back
swiftly, but the brightly lighted ave-
nue offered no concealing shadows, so
she stood where she was, waiting for
the sharp, sweet pain of the moment,
when Dick would turn and face her.'

"Mother!" His shout must have
roused the neighborhood, but it was
glorious music to Nora. Half laugh-
ing, half crying, she held out her arms.

When at last he released her it was
only to pull her down onto the steps
beside him where, completely uncon-
scious of the stares of passersby, they
sat engrossed in talk — the kind of talk
Nora had known so many times in her
thoughts, but not, for so long a time
now, in reality. And when, long after
midnight, she rose to go, she had told
him about the scheme Stuart Fields
and Juliet had prepared to swindle
him; and quieted his first anger and
chagrin and let him see that to her the
episode was nothing for him to be
ashamed of.

"You were trying to be a good busi-
ness man, and the best business men
often get fooled," she told him. "Just
forget it, Dick, forget all about it,
and move back here with your father."

He nodded, and then brightened at
a sudden idea. "No — I've a better
idea, now that I've found you again.
Why don't we get a place where we

SEPTEMBER. 1941

Wat/

NO DISHES ?

You have just bought a piano, a living-
room rug, a fine watch, or some similar,
substantial adjunct to your home or your
scheme of living. What extra induce-
ment was "thrown in" to influence
your choice?

The answer, of course, is — nothing. In
fact, you'd be suspicious if something extra
had been offered! You are satisfied the article
itself is worth the price you paid.

Most Fels-Naptha Users feel the same
way about laundry soap. They know that
a bar or box of Fels-Naptha Soap is worth
every penny of the purchase price — in
extra washing energy. They don't
want any other extras "thrown in."

As one woman aptly puts it,

"the soap that's cheapest at the
counter isn't always cheapest
when the washing's done."

fmfm&em'

Of course you fuss about your face
make-up . . . but do you do a thing to
make your body beautiful? And it's so
simple. Mavis Talcum does a mar-
velous body-beautifying job . . . your
skin becomes satin-smooth under its
flower fragrance, and dressing seems
easier . . . girdle glides on easily . . . slip
stays smooth . . . and you walk in a
halo of fragrance all the day. Buy
Mavis, today I

In White, Flesh and Boditan (Ra-
chel) Shades. 75*, 50*, 25* and 10*.

mam

can live together? Joan could come
too, if she wants to. She doesn't," he
added thoughtfully, "like things
around here any better than I do."

An apartment, with Joan and Dick,
free to be with her all the time! Noth-
ing in the world could bring her
greater happiness than that. But the
memory of Cyril, broken, lonely, rose
up in her mind. She shook her head.

"No, Dick. You and Joan must
stay with your father. He needs you,
now that Juliet is gone." She started
away, but Dick pulled her back.
"Please, Dick," she urged. "I'll see
you tomorrow — but please go to your
father now." And not daring to look
again at him for fear she would give
in and let him come with her, she
raced across the sidewalk and hur-
riedly got into a taxi parked at the

WINTER closed in, bringing with it
snow and bitter cold, but in Nora's
heart there was no more bitterness,
only joy and contentment. For now
Dick, as well as Joan, was visiting
her almost every day. For the first
time, she was free to accompany them
on excursions about the city; she had
always refused to go out with Joan
or Barbara, afraid that they might run
into Cyril or Juliet. Now, though,
there were shopping trips, matinees,
concerts, art galleries — even tea in a
little Chinese restaurant which had
been Joan's and Dick's favorite treat
when they were children — a hundred
delightful moments which were de-
lightful only because they were shared
with the children.

Sometimes Penelope went with
them, and in the evening Michael was
usually one of the party. Occasionally
Barbara and Alex asked all of them
to their apartment and these were the
hours which were dearest of all to
Nora. There in front of the tiny fire-
place with all the children gathered
around her and her tiny grandson
asleep in the adjoining room, Nora
could feel that sense of completeness,
of fulfillment which she had dreamed
of.

Surprisingly, too, Cyril was a fre-
quent addition to these little family
meetings. Soon after Juliet's depar-
ture, he had, as he had suggested to
Nora, taken Alex into his office, and
following this he began to visit their
apartment, and at first Nora saw him
only when their visits to Barbara hap-
pened to overlap. Not long after that
he began to join Joan or Dick on their
calls to see their mother, and before
long the children, if not Nora herself,
began including him in their plans
quite as a matter of course.

After her first embarrassment at
seeing him had worn off, Nora never
begrudged his presence. She might

ItOIAHCl/ or /FLOWIPS

V. VIVAUDOU. INC

have argued, and quite justly, that
since she had left the children to his
care at an earlier day, he should leave
her free now to enjoy their association
alone, but her heart was too filled
with happiness to want to deny hap-
piness to him. After all, he was lone-
ly; lonelier than he had ever been in
his life, lonelier, she knew with sure
instinct, than she had been when she
was separated from the children. She
had had pleasant memories for con-
solation; Cyril's memories must be
only bitter ones.

Not that Cyril ever mentioned his
loneliness. On the contrary, ever
since he had received a brief note
from Juliet's lawyer telling him that
she had established residence in Reno,
he had been building up the belief
that he was glad she was gone. Nora
saw this and saw in his words an effort
to hide the desolation which was
swamping him and which he would
not admit even to himself, but she
never let him suspect that she knew
the truth.

She gradually found herself slipping
into a strange routine, made up of
many contradictory factors. She was
still, of course, Penelope's governess
and overseer of the Pearson house-
hold, but in addition she was part time
mother to her own children and she
found to her dismay that she was be-
ginning to play an increasingly im-
portant part in her former husband's
life.

She didn't know how important a
part, until a night about a week be-
fore Juliet's divorce was to be granted.
Cyril asked her to have dinner with
him and although Nora avoided, as
much as she could, seeing him unless
one of the children was present, she
couldn't on the spur of the moment
think of a plausible excuse for de-
clining.

ALL DURING the early part of the
evening she was aware, by count-
less small thoughtful attentions he paid
her, that there was something of im-
portance on his mind. They went to
a small restaurant in the East Fifties.
It wasn't smart or showy but the food
was superb and they had dined there
frequently in the past — not so fre-
quently that returning brought up un-
happy memories but frequently
enough for her to be sure that he
recalled her liking for the place and
was trying to please her by taking her
there now.

He had ordered dinner in advance,
remembering the dishes she preferred.
During dinner his conversation was
such a blend of entertaining imper-
sonalities and tender reminiscence
that Nora was both touched by his
efforts to make her happy and con-
sumed by curiosity as to what they

S^fA/e£&Z-

EDWARD J. HERLIHY — whose pleasant voice you hear announcing
the Pepper Young's Family programs. Ed wanted to be an actor,
but after earning a living as a newsboy, gardener, salesman, soda
clerk, railroad section hand and life guard, he entered radio as
an announcer and decided to stick there. One of his early assign-
ments at NBC was to interview an old lady who lived in the Bronx.
Ed took a taxicab to the address, which proved to be a vacant lot.
He wandered around in the rain, searching for the right place,
until long after program-time. It was only later that he learned
the interview was supposed to take place in the NBC studios. Ed is
athletic and likes to cook, scrambled eggs being his specialty.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

were leading up to.

But it wasn't until they had finished
eating that there was an answer to her
questions, for it wasn't until then,
while they sat with coffee before them,
that he astounded her by asking her
to marry him after Juliet secured her
divorce.

"I've been thinking things over,
Nora," he said, "and I know that I
made a mistake in marrying Juliet, in
ever asking you for a divorce. And I
want you to marry me when I am
free again."

Shocked indignation overwhelmed
her. She wouldn't marry him again — ■
she couldn't — it was outrageous for
him to assume that she might even
think of it. And then, to her surprise,
she found that she was thinking of it
— and very seriously. Thinking what
it would mean to have her own home,
and her children in that home. Think-
ing of the children and wondering
whether remarriage might be best for
them, whether she ought to consider
it for their sake. Muddled, disordered,
hurried thinking — but when at last she
spoke, instead of refusing him as at
first she had intended to do, she said
slowly, "I don't know, Cyril. It's too
big a question to decide at once. I'll
have to wait until tomorrow to give
you an answer."

SHE COULD see that Cyril was sur-
prised and annoyed, but he an-
swered with what for him was great
patience, "Very well, Nora. Think it
over, of course, if you feel that you
need to."

Thinking it over, Nora reflected
hours later as she lay in bed and stared
into the darkness above her, was a
longer, more difficult process than
she had expected it to be. She had
believed that her decision to give Cyril
a divorce and the later decision to
leave the children to his care involved
more problems than she could ever
solve; now she was beginning to real-
ize that the prospect of remarrying
him involved just as many and just
as complicated factors.

First there was the question whether
a marriage that once has been broken
can ever be put together again satis-
factorily. It wouldn't be the same as
it had been in the beginning of course
— she and Cyril had traveled too far
on their separate paths for her to have
any illusions about that. Then they
had had youth and love and under-
standing. Now they were older. But
surely, she reasoned, age must have
brought them wisdom and tolerance;
perhaps these would be as good a
basis for marriage, now that they
were in their fifties, as youthful love
had been for that earlier marriage.

But if their youthful love hadn't
held their first marriage together, was
there any chance that even tolerance
and wisdom could hold a second one
fast? She remembered what Cyril
had said; that he knew he had made
a mistake in asking for divorce. That
admission certainly must mean that he
was sorry for the mistake and would
make every effort in his power to
make a second marriage a success.

There crept into her mind the pos-
sibility that perhaps Cyril had asked
her to marry him out of a selfish desire
to escape the loneliness of the past
few weeks. Well, she couldn't find it
in her heart to criticize him too harsh-
ly for that. No one knew better than
she the devastating misery of loneli-
ness; the even more devastating
misery of knowing that that lone-
liness will never end. Yes, if Cyril

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was reaching out for companionship
that would comfort his middle age,
Nora could sympathize for she, too,
would be glad of companionship —
glad to offer it as well as receive it.

There were practical questions to
be considered too; financial security
instead of working for her own living.
And there was the luxury of having
her own home. The Pearson house-
hold had been a heaven-sent refuge
to Nora and in it she had found peace
and a measure of happiness, but no
woman can ever be completely con-
tent in somebody else's house with
somebody else's child — even as sweet
a child as Penelope — after she has
once known the joy of her own home
and her own children.

The children. In the final analysis
they were the ones — the only ones —
who counted. It was their welfare
and happiness she had to consider
now, just as she had in the past. The
arguments which had been whirling
through her mind ever since dinner
time were unimportant, meaningless
beside the vital question: Would re-
marriage be best for the children?

That question was still unanswered
when dawn drove the blackness out
of her room and filled it with soft gray
light. At times she was ready to
believe that a reunited home was the
best, the only thing for them — then
there would be the uneasy doubt that
perhaps this was only wishful think-
ing. She had told Cyril that she
couldn't give him an answer at once;
now she began to feel that she could
never give him one. The children
would have to decide for her — she
couldn't decide alone!

AS SOON as she finished breakfast
»» next morning, she telephoned
Barbara then Dick and Joan. She
didn't tell them what was in her mind,
but asked them to come to see her that
afternoon.

They came trooping in shortly after
lunch. Joan and Dick had stopped
to pick up Barbara and Baby Sandy,
who rode in, very gaily, on his young
uncle's shoulder. Nora lifted him into
her own arms, and led the way to her
room where they could talk without
interruption.

And then, quite simply, she told
them that their father had asked her
to marry him again.

Their responses were instantaneous
and, Nora smiled inwardly, quite char-
acteristic: Joan's rapturous, "Oh,
Mother, that will be wonderful —
we'll all be together again," Dick's:
"Good for him! What did you say?"
and Barbara's wiser, maturer, "Could
you marry him again, after everything
that's happened?"

When their first excitement died
down, Nora explained why she had
asked them to meet her. She told
them the questions that had occurred
to her and that the problem was too
much for her to decide alone. "Since
your futures, maybe even more than
mine, will be affected," she concluded,
"I think the decision should be up to
you. I'll do anything you decide."

At last they reached a decision,
reached it after a long and animated
discussion, during which Nora sat
quietly by, smiling over Baby Sandy's
fuzzy hair at the three who sat in a
little ring on the floor at her feet.
Whether it was based on their own
hopes and desires, on their realization
of their father's loneliness or on their
understanding that their mother's
need for security was as great as their
own, it wasn't quite clear, but the de-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

cision was unanimous. They wanted
their parents to marry again.

Nora had told Cyril that she would
give him his answer at his home that
afternoon, and as soon as the children
left she went back to her room to
dress. It was silly, she told herself,
for her cheeks to be so pink, her eyes
so bright; foolish for her heart to be
singing within her as it was singing,
and utterly absurd for her to stand so
long in front of her mirror, making
sure that her smart gray hat was tilted
at its most becoming angle.

All the way up Fifth Avenue in the
taxi she tried to convince herself that
her excitement was only relief from
the long hours of doubt and question-
ing, but by the time she reached the
house she knew this wasn't the case
at all. She would have accepted the
children's wish if they had decided the
other way, but that other decision
would have never brought her this
sharp, sweet happiness, that filled her
now.

The servant who opened the door
was strange to her and for a moment
she thought he was being stupid or
inefficient when he told her that Cyril
wasn't at home. But the man was
positive. Mr. Worthington had left
early in the morning by plane on a
business trip.

NORA'S bright confidence melted,
leaving her more angry than she
had been in years. This was monstrous
of Cyril, really inexcusable. No mat-
ter what business had called him out
of town he should have gotten in touch
with her somehow, even if it was only
a hurried telegram from the airport.
He should have known how hurt she
would be; should have prevented that
hurt, not left her to arrive at his house
and stand in his hallway like a beggar.

"Would you care to leave a mes-
sage?" the man servant asked.

"No — yes — no — " what kind of mes-
sage could a woman leave her former
husband in such a situation as this?—
From somewhere back in the house a
telephone bell rang. "That might be a
message for me from Mr. Worthing-
ton," Nora said relievedly and the
man bowed and disappeared down
the hall.

Left alone, Nora stood with her
forehead wrinkled in thought, looking
about the hall. The servants were
slack, she noted. The hall needed
dusting and there were even papers
scattered on the floor. It was her
instinct for tidiness which prompted
her to pick them up — a yellow enve-
lope, torn across one end, and the
telegram it had contained. And it
was a subconscious wish to find some
clue to Cyril's unaccountable absence
which made her read the message.
It had been sent from Reno the night
before and it said simply: "All right,
come ahead if you want to, but you'd
better make it soon and you'd better
make it worth my while." The in-
solence of the words would have told
Nora who sent it, even without the
name "Juliet" which appeared at the
end.

Waves of faintness, of stunned dis-
belief, of humiliation greater than she
had ever known, swept over her. How
long she stood there with the telegram
in one hand while the other clung to a
supporting chair, she never could re-
member. But the waves receded at
last and she could stand proudly erect
without the need of support; and when
the servant returned she was able to
leave as casually as though she were
an ordinary caller and this an ordinary

SEPTEMBER, 1941

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call; as casually as though the tele-
gram were not almost cutting through
her purse where she had thrust it
after those waves of misery had dis-
appeared.

They came back to overwhelm her
again, though, as soon as she had left
the house, so that she walked, half
dazed, all the way home, pushing her-
self blindly through crowds of hurry-
ing shoppers, past large gay signs
which announced that there were only
five more shopping days until Christ-
mas, until at last she reached the
sanctuary of her own room.

And there alone she gave way to the
heartbreak within her. It was more
like physical pain than any emotion
she had ever known. Her pride, her
dignity had been wounded by divorce;
she had endured almost unbearable
unhappiness when she was separated
from the children, but never before
had she known such shame, such
self- contempt as she could feel now
burning into her very soul.

She should have known, she real-
ized now when it was too late, that
Cyril hadn't changed; that he would
never change. He was dominated by
arrogance and greed — strange that she
had never known that until so late
and that she should have forgotten
it so quickly — and he would go to any
lengths to get what he wanted.

"I want you to marry me, Nora," he
had said last night. But he hadn't
really wanted her to. It was Juliet
he wanted, as he had from the be-
ginning; he had wanted her so badly
that even while he was asking Nora
to marry him he must have been
hoping, praying that Juliet would let
him come to her as he had been beg-
ging her to. For he had been begging,
Nora told herself wearily. There was
no escaping the fact that Juliet's mes-
sage was an answer — a grudging,
scornful answer — to his pleas of re-
conciliation.

MERCIFULLY, the children had ex-
pected her to have dinner with
Cyril so none of them telephoned her
that evening. Mercifully, too, for Nora,
that by morning Penelope had devel-
oped a cold which kept her in bed, for
it gave Nora an excuse, when first
Joan, then Barbara, and Dick, tele-
phoned her to have the maid tell them
that she was taking care of Penelope
and couldn't be disturbed. For she
couldn't talk to them; she couldn't
admit, even to her own children, the
shame and bitterness that filled her,
couldn't even let herself think how
their sympathy might ease her sorrow.

Dick and Joan would have discov-
ered by this time that their father was
not at home, that he had gone away
without waiting for her answer. They
and Barbara as well would be frantic
with worry. They were entitled to
some explanation, but she couldn't
give it to them. Cyril could do that
when he returned, bringing Juliet
with him.

All that Saturday and Sunday she
kept close to Penelope's room, thank-
ful that her duties provided an effec-
tive barrier against the children's in-
quiries. They forced her, too, to shove
her own misery into the back of her
mind, where it lay like a heavy, ugly
stone, ready to roll back and crush her
again.

On Monday, two days before Christ-
mas, Cyril came to see her. If she had
been upstairs when he arrived she
would have sent word that she
couldn't see him, but unfortunately
she was crossing the hall when he was

admitted, so there was nothing to do
but ask him into the library.

He was decidedly ill at ease and he
began at once to apologize for not
meeting her at the house as they had
planned. Business had called him out
of town, he explained without meet-
ing her eyes, and there had been
no time even to leave her a message.
"My plane got in just half an hour
ago, Nora," he added, "and I came
here straight from the airport, so you
can see how anxious I am to have
your answer."

So Juliet had refused him after all.
And after he had gone crying to Juliet
for reconciliation and had been re-
fused, he could come back to her and
pretend that everything was all right;
could expect her to marry him — for
he did expect it, his self assurance
made that very plain. Would any-
thing ever destroy his smug assurance,
his effrontery? If she were to turn
on him now, lash out at him with hys-
terical fury . . . But it wasn't hysterics
she wanted, but to thrust Cyril out of
her life forever, and she wanted him
to know exactly why she was doing it,
but she could do that without drama-
tics.

She said quietly, "Juliet refused you
again."

For a moment sheer amazement held
him speechless, then he began to blus-
ter. Yes, he admitted, he had gone to
Reno. Something had come up about
the divorce. "I didn't want you to
know, Nora," he sounded almost con-
vincing, "because I was afraid it might
upset you. But it's all taken care of
now. Juliet will get her decree and
we can be married as soon after that
as you want to."

"But I don't want to, Cyril," she
went on in that same quiet voice.
"That's the answer I have for you. I
don't want to marry you."

"Nora!" The word held disbelief.
Then he said reproachfully, "You
know how I hoped — "

"Exactly!" Nora broke in with final-
ity. "I know you hoped that Juliet
would come back to you, when you
went to her in Reno." He started to
speak then, but she shook her head.
"There's no use pretending any more,
Cyril. I read Juliet's telegram. I know
now that it would always be the same.
You would run to her whenever she
called you — and you would live in
hope that she would call."

And against Nora's knowledge of
the truth about him, against his own
knowledge of this truth, he had no
argument. Just as he had been trans-
formed, the night Juliet left for Reno,
into old age, he was transformed again
by this knowledge of himself, and it
was with the steps of an old man that
he walked out of the house.

NORA tried to forget the unpleasant
scene by throwing herself, the next
day, into Penelope's Christmas plans.
Now that she was well again, there
were last minute shopping and gift
wrapping to delight her 12-year-old
heart, and in all of it Nora had to
share. And with Penelope's uncon-
scious help Nora managed to get
through the dreary day, putting out of
her mind the realization that it was
Christmas Eve and she had not heard
from the children. Then, late at night,
there came the miracle of Barbara's
telephone call and Barbara's voice
crying, "Mother, please come to din-
ner tomorrow. Alex and I want you
with us."

"Alex and I want you," Barbara had

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

said. No word of Joan or of Dick.
Perhaps they didn't want her. Perhaps
it was only Barbara, with her more
mature understanding, who sensed her
mother's loneliness and wanted to
ease it.

But when she reached their apart-
ment on Christmas day, they were all
there. Dick and Joan and Michael.
And Cyril was there too. That was the
incredible thing — that Cyril should be
there as though this were an ordinary
Christmas, as though they had spent
every Christmas with the children and
would continue to spend them together
world without end. Well, if he could
pretend that that was the way it was,
so could Nora — for a few hours at least.
And she would enjoy those hours —
there would be no pretense about that.
No matter what the past had held, no
matter what the future might bring
she was with the children she loved
and nothing could spoil that joy.

IT was Cyril who brought up the
past. They had finished dinner, a
delicious, beautifully managed dinner
in spite of the fact that it was Bar-
bara's first attempt at a meal of such
proportions, and were sipping the fine
old brandy which was C" ril's own
contribution to the meal when he rose
to his feet and asked permission to
speak. Nora tensed with alarm, then
quickly stifled it. The day had been
so pleasant; surely Cyril wouldn't do
or say anything to spoil things now.

As if he had been reading her mind
he smiled at her half in assurance,
half in pleading, then speaking to the
entire group gathered around the table
he said, "I can't tell you how much it
has meant to me, having all of you
around me again, as a family, as you
used to be on Christmas Day. We had
many Christmases like this when you
children were little and I know how
happy you were then, as your mother
and I were." He paused, then went on
as though he was finding speech diffi-
cult. "I know too that the past few
Christmases, the past few years, in-
stead of being happy have been sad
ones for all of you — for your mother
especially — and I want you all to
know," his eyes traveled slowly around
the table, "that I realize now that all
the sadness of the past was my fault."

Nora felt a quick sting of tears
against her eyelids. She knew what it
must be costing him to make this ad-
mission and she couldn't keep down a
sharp feeling of compassion for him.

"I made a mistake," he went on, "in
asking your mother for a divorce. I'm
sorry for that now and you can be
sure, all of you, that in the future I'm
going to do everything in my power
to make up for that mistake." He
smiled a little wryly. "I tried to make
up for it by asking her to marry me
again, but she refused — and I can un-
derstand very well why she might feel
that marrying me again, after all that
had happened, was impossible."

For a moment, then, their eyes met
and in that moment Nora knew many
things. That he was genuinely, as he
had said, sorry for the past; that he
was sincere in his intention to try to
make up for it. She knew too that he
had never told the children the real
reason for her refusal to marry him
and that he was relying on her never
to tell them, and her answering glance
promised that she would keep silent
forever.

When he spoke again, after the silent
message their eyes had exchanged, he
was more confident, more at ease.

SEPTEMBER. 1941

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"I don't know what your mother
plans for the future," he said then,
"but I want all of you to know — and
Nora too — that whatever she wants
she will have. Financial indepen-
dence, of course. A home of her own
where she can see you whenever she
wishes. And if she should want to
see me too — well, I don't have to tell
you how happy that would make me."

She felt his eyes on her again, and
she knew they held a new plea for for-
giveness. Involuntarily the old ques-
tion rose in her mind: For the sake
of the children could they, even now,
put their marriage together again?

She looked at the children — and
then suddenly she realized that they
weren't children any longer. They
were grown, now. Barbara, here in
her own home with her husband and
her baby; Joan, who couldn't — and
didn't even try to — keep from admir-
ing the engagement ring Michael had
placed on her finger on Christmas eve;
Joan soon would be making a home
for Michael. And Dick — it would be
only a few years at the most until he
too would move into a new independ-
ent life of his own.

They would always need her love
and understanding, and they would
always have that. But they didn't, and

would never again, need the additional
assurance that she was their father's
wife living in their father's house;
they didn't even need to know why she
wasn't.

Cyril had said that the future should
be as she wanted it, and now she
knew what that future was to be: She
would have her children close to her,
not dependent on her as little children
are, but free to enjoy their grown-up
problems and interests as any other
mother of grown children would.

As for Cyril — a rather bitter little
smile touched her lips. A moment ago
she had been telling herself that he
was sincerely sorry for the mistakes he
had made in the past. And that was
no doubt true. But this was also true:
Cyril was so plausible that he could
fool himself as easily — perhaps more
easily — than he could fool her. He
would never change, really, although
at times such as this he might wish to.
The best relationship she and he could
have must be a kind of armed truce.
She must not allow herself to be led
into making herself , vulnerable again
to his arrogance, his thoughtless
cruelty and selfishness.

With that understanding, she was
able to smile across the room at him
quite calmly.

Home of the Brave

(Continued from page 37)

that ain't all. I never told you about
myself. I got to tell you, and then if
you want to kick me out o' New
Chance, I'll go ... I was runnin'
away from the cops the night you
found me in Frisco. I'd — I'd just
killed my father."

Joe took his pipe from his mouth
and knocked it out against the step.
"Better tell me how it happened, Ca-
sino," he suggested.

"I hated him!" she said. "I'd always
hated him, and been scared o' him. I
don't even know if he was my father.
He always said he was, and I don't re-
member no other. He used to make
me beg and steal and — and that last
night he tried to make me do — some-
thin' worse. I said I wouldn't, and he
started in to lick me. I went about
crazy, I was so mad and scared, too.
There was a big heavy iron pot on
the stove and I picked it up and
banged him over the head with it. It
— it killed him. And when you brought
me up here I was willin' to come just
because I knew the cops was after
me. But now — "

"Yes?" he prompted.

WELL — I can't stay here and let
'em find me here. It'd get you —
and New Chance — into trouble,
wouldn't it?"

Joe's big arm went out to encircle
her shoulders. "Casino," he said,
"I'm glad you told me this. I been
waitin', hopin' you would talk about
yourself without me havin' to ask.
But you didn't kill your father."

She twitched convulsively under his
grasp. "But I did! He fell down, and
I tried to bring him to, but I couldn't!"

"No," he insisted, in the same quiet
way. "You couldn't have killed him,
because he was found drowned just
the other day, in the Bay. I got a
friend there in Frisco; before we left
I told him to ask around about a girl
named Casino. I wanted to find out
about you — not because I was pokin'
into your business, but I thought

maybe I could help you. And yester-
day mornin' I got a letter from him,
tellin' me who your father was, and
how he'd been fished out o' the Bay,
dead. So you see you couldn't of
killed him, because he was seen
walkin' around after we left Frisco."

She was shaking her head as if she
couldn't understand his words. "Pa
dead!" she whispered. "And I didn't
kill him! Why — why, it's like bein'
born all over! Then I can stay here?"

"Yes, if you want to. Because no-
body but you and me knows about the
fight you had with him."

"Nobody — •"

"Casino !" Doc's voice was sharp
from the bedroom.

She sprang to her feet with the
lightness of a bird and was gone. Joe
sat there, musing, while the moon
sailed overhead to the peak of the
sky. It was then that he heard a tiny,
thin cry from the cabin, and he got
up and went inside.

Casino came out of the bedroom,
carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle.
To a frantic Neil, she said, "Doc's still
with Lois. He said to tell you she's
fine, and you can see her in a minute.
Right now — well, maybe you'd like
to see your son."

Unnoticed in the background, Joe
watched Neil peering, awestruck, at
his first-born. Then Casino raised her
head, and he met her eyes. Over
Neil's bent head they gazed at each
other steadily, and Joe saw something
in her face that had never been there
before — a tender, inner sweetness.

She smiled, and he was reminded of
the first startling loveliness of dawn
light striking a distant peak.

"Oh, Joe," she said, "isn't — isn't it
wonderful?"

Casino was becoming a woman.

Listen to the further exciting ad-
ventures of Casino, Joe, and the other
gallant people of New Chance on
Home of the Brave, Monday through
Friday on NBC-Red, 5:00 P.M., E.D.T.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

If You Were Mrs. Ralph

wards

(Continued from page 31)

remains in the living room. Barbara
has substituted her own rug, a hand-
some new break front, antique end
tables and lamps on either side of
the divan, and a coffee table made by
her grandfather.

But when you step into the sitting
room, you see on one side the very
practical day bed and radio that
belonged to the boys — and on the
other side the dainty drop leaf table,
the rocking chair that any man would
feel a perfect fool to sit in, and a
Steuben glass bowl and two lamps
that no man in the world would select.

The bedroom furniture is held over
from the masculine era. "Some day
we'll move it into a guest room in
the country house we plan to have,"
Barbara tells you confidentially.
"Then I'll have my own dressing table
— with ruffles!"

Since Ralph's program, Truth and
Consequences, heard at 8:30 P. M.,
E.D.S.T., Saturdays over NBC-Red,
has been traveling for theater appear-
ances, the Edwardses haven't had
much chance at the tranquil home life
they prefer. But when they're in New
York, they usually get up around ten
and have a leisurely breakfast on a
card table. Barbara has a maid to do
most of the housework, but break-
fasts she does herself. Now that Ralph
has an office of his own, his work
seldom intrudes in his home. Except
Saturday mornings. Then the agency
man comes to breakfast. Barbara
serves them in the sitting room — and
then shuts the door on them while
they tear the script to pieces for
Saturday night's broadcast.

THE Edwardses are fond of Chinese
' checkers, their own home movies,
each other, and, of course, Truth and
Consequences. Mrs. Edwards figures
out a lot of the consequences. "But
she always thinks up expensive ones,"
her husband wails, "that involve a lot
of actors and props!" She also likes
to work on hammered copper, and has
made a whole set of ash trays.

Ralph is the kind of guy who gets
a big kick even out of his office rou-
tine. Once he and an Australian
assistant got the girls on the office
staff to throw a big farewell party
for the assistant who, Ralph said as a
joke, was going back home to Aus-
tralia. But the girls got even with
those two. One of the girls announced
her engagement and the rest per-
suaded Ralph to give her an office
party, too. When the engagement gift
was unwrapped, Ralph read a note
inside which said, "Australia is a long
way off — and so is my wedding!"

He's still trying to think up a con-
sequence to that one !

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was gay and lighthearted and had
money and a car. Skeeter, on the
other hand, had very little money and
he managed to get around on a bicycle.
Also, Pat liked girls. He spent two-
thirds of his time cultivating them,
being with them. Skeeter avoided
girls whenever he could. Skeeter final-
ly decided that in his usual carefree
fashion, Pat wanted him around for
laughs.

There was the afternoon Pat came
home looking as though he were
drunk, but wasn't.

"Guess who's back in town!" Pat
said.

"Who?" Skeeter asked, looking up
from his book.

"Lynn Cutler," Pat said. "Remem-
ber Lynn from High School? Boy,
did she turn into a honey!"

DID he remember! "Is she — is she
staying in town long?" Skeeter
asked, angry with himself because the
mere mention of Lynn's name could
bring that tightness to his throat and
that feeling of tears into his eyes.

"Guess so," Pat said. "She's work-
ing in Bonnie Simmons' Beauty Par-
lor."

"Working?" Skeeter asked. That
was wrong. Lynn was too beautiful
to have to work, ever.

"Yeah," Pat said. "Her family lost
a lot of money last year. She had to
give up school."

Skeeter resented Pat's acceptance of
the fact that Lynn was like anyone
else, but he said nothing. It wouldn't
have done to give Pat any idea of the
way he felt. The very thought of such
a one as Skeeter harboring romantic
thoughts, much less love, for Lynn
would probably have sent Pat into
convulsions. And, thinking it over,
Skeeter himself decided it was pretty
silly of him.

Still, after that, he couldn't keep
his feet from carrying him down the
tree-lined Main Street, past Bonnie
Simmons' Beauty Parlor, every chance
they got.

And, one afternoon, as he was stroll-
ing by, trying very hard to look as
though he had some purpose in walk-
ing down that street, Lynn Cutler
came out of the shop.

"Why, Skeeter Russell!" Lynn cried.
"How are you?"

Skeeter stopped. His heart stopped,
too. "Er, hello — Miss Lynn — er —
hello," he gulped. He stood there only
for a second or so, but in that time,
his eyes drank in every detail of her.

Her golden hair was like flame in
the sunlight and her lovely face was
like the sun itself, warm and bright.
She was small — only reached to Skeet-
er's shoulder — and she looked fragile
and delicate. Yet, there was some-
thing about the way she stood, the
way she held her head, that made him
feel she was strong, strong and de-
pendable.

His feet were moving again. He
couldn't control them. They were
taking him away from her. "I — I
have to — er — good-bye, Miss Lynn,"
his tongue babbled. "It's nice that
you're back."

It wasn't long before Lynn was "the
girl" in Brewster City. Skeeter
watched the boys competing with each
other for her favors. In his heart, he
was glad. Lynn deserved to be loved
and admired. She was beautiful and
sweet and kind. It was right that men

should adore her.

Even when Pat Hines began easing
out all competitors, Skeeter could not
find it in him to be jealous. Pat was
by no means worthy of Lynn. But
then, no man Skeeter had ever known
could be that. However, Pat was hand-
some and he had money. He could
take Lynn to nice places and bring
her some of the gayety she needed.

And so, that afternoon of the last
baseball game of the season, Skeeter
knew that somewhere in the crowds
headed toward the ball park, Lynn
and Pat were together. It was a
very important game. Pat had suc-
ceeded in arranging a game between
the Ardmore team and the profes-
sional Western Giants.

Skeeter weaved through the throngs,
ringing his bicycle bell almost con-
stantly to clear a path. He knew they
were there, yet his heart leaped, when
he actually came across Lynn and
Pat.

"Hi, Skeeter! How's the pitching
arm?" Pat called.

Skeeter slowed down. "Hello, Pat,"
he said. His eyes moved on to Lynn.
"Oh, hello— Miss — Miss — "

"Hey, look out!" Pat yelled.

And Skeeter felt himself falling, his
legs and the wheels in a tangle. Peo-
ple stopped to watch him and laugh.

"What's the matter, Skeeter?" some-
one joked. "You falling for Lynn Cut-
ler, too?"

Lynn was bending over him, hold-
ing out her hand to help him up. "Are
you hurt, Skeeter?" she asked.

Skeeter forced himself to laugh. He
got up. "No — no, Miss Lynn — I — I'm
all right," he mumbled. "Thanks, just
the same." He pulled his bicycle up-
right and started away quickly. He
couldn't get away from there fast
enough.

He was angry with himself. Why
did he always have to make a spec-
tacle of himself? Why did he have to
fall just there, just then? And his
anger had to have an outlet. He found
it in the game. All the humiliation
and pain and helpless rage went into
his pitching.

f*\NE out! Two out! Three out! First
**^ inning, second inning, third in-
ning, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and
eighth inning. Ninth inning. Skeeter
faced the batter. It was two out, two
strikes and three balls on Bob Yount,
the Giants' ace slugger. Skeeter
gripped the ball. The wind up. Zing!
Out!

The crowd roared. The crowd
shouted and applauded and laughed.
Pat pounded him on the back. Skee-
ter felt tired and let down. The anger
was gone and there was nothing to
take its place. He hurried to the
dressing rooms.

As he stepped into the cool dimness,
he heard the radio. The sports an-
nouncer was just finishing up his
broadcast.

" — all over, folks. The Ardmore
boys have trounced their professional
rivals by a score of two to nothing.
Skeeter Russell chalks up another no
hit-no run game to his record. What's
his secret? You'd have to see Skeeter
to understand that. He's about the
funniest looking guy you've ever seen
on a baseball diamond. Who could hit
him? When Skeeter winds up, the
rival players fall over laughing. The
boy's a riot. Well, time's up, I see.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

This is Ted Trommell, returning you
to — " Skeeter snapped off the radio.

A man came into the dressing room.
"Russell?" It was the manager of
the Western Giants.

"Yes," Skeeter said wearily.

"How'd you like to join the Giants?"

Skeeter stared at him. "Join the
Giants, Mr. Lane?"

"Sure," Lane said. "Get in on
Spring practice, right away."

"Well — gee — " Skeeter said. "Sure."

That was all, but it changed every-
thing. Skeeter hadn't intended going
to the dance at the Lake Tavern that
evening. But this changed his mind.
He didn't care whether people laughed
or not, any more. He had this. It
made a difference. Let them laugh.
He was way ahead of them. Besides,
Lynn would be at this dance. It was
too much to hope for that she would
notice him, much less dance with him,
but, at least, he could see her, watch
her.

The crowd was having a pretty
high time. It was a celebration. Skee-
ter came in for his share of back-
slapping and congratulations. He
edged around the dance floor, looking
for Lynn and Pat.

"Yay! Skeeter!" Pat was a little
tipsy.

"Hello, Pat. Having a good time?"

"Swell," Pat said. "How about you,
hero?"

"First rate," Skeeter said. "It's nice
to see so many people enjoying them-
selves."

"Well, have fun," Pat said, turning
away unsteadily.

SKEETER put a restraining hand on
Pat's arm. "Say, Pat, it's none of
my business, I know — but — well, don't
you think you've had enough to
drink? You're getting a little wobbly
on your feet."

"So what?" Pat demanded boister-
ously. "I came to have a good time
and I'm having it."

"And Lynn?" Skeeter went on.
"You came with her and you're neg-
lecting her. Don't you think it's silly
to take a chance on losing her?"

"Look, Skeeter," Pat said. "Nobody
can lose Lynn, because nobody has
her. And you can't neglect her, either,
because as soon as your back's turned
there are ten guys ready to take your
place. Take it easy, Skeeter. You're
a funny guy, don't try to be serious.
Just makes you look funnier!" Sud-
denly, Pat doubled up with laughter.
"Skeeter, cut it out! You look — you
look — like a clown with the cramps."
Pat laughed himself away.

Skeeter looked after him. Guess
people don't realize clowns do have
cramps, he thought glumly.

"Skeeter!"

He turned around and found him-
self looking into Lynn's eyes.

"I've been trying to get hold of you
all evening," Lynn said.

"Me?" Skeeter asked.

"Yes, you," Lynn smiled. "I want
to tell you what a grand game you
played this afternoon."

"Oh — game — ?" Skeeter said. "Yes,
I guess people had a good time. At
least, they got a few laughs out of it."

"I didn't," Lynn said. "Get any
laughs, I mean. I thought it was a
thrilling performance — on your part."

"Gee — thanks, Miss Lynn." Skeeter
didn't know what to say next. "Look-
ing for Pat?"

"No," Lynn said. "I was looking
for you. Would you like to dance
with me?"

"Who, me?"

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"Yes," Lynn smiled.

"But — I — you mean that, Miss
Lynn?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you like to
dance with me?"

"Wouldn't I like to— Gosh!" Skeeter
breathed. "I — sure — only — I really
don't know how to dance. I haven't
had much practice."

"I'll teach you," Lynn said. "Come
on, Skeeter. There's nothing to it."

Skeeter felt as though he were
floating. His arm was around her
slender waist. This way, she seemed
even smaller than he'd thought. The
top of her head was under his chin
and he could smell the fragrance of
her hair. It made him think of fields
of new cut hay and Spring flowers.
She looked up at him and smiled and
the rest of the world disappeared
and he was lost in the depths of her
eyes.

"Well! Look, look!" Pat broke in
on them. He grimaced. "The goil
what I brung, dancin' with the guy
what I room with!" he clowned.

"Pat, you're drunk," Lynn said
quietly. "Go and sit down."

"Sure," Pat said. "Sit down and cry
into my beard. Okay. Okay by me.
No hard feelings. I wouldn't break
up that picture for anything. You
look like something, you two. What
is it, now? Let's see — oh, yeah,
'Beauty and the Beast'." And Pat
staggered away, laughing.

"Gee, Miss Lynn, I'm sorry," Skeeter
said. Pat must be very drunk, he
thought, to be jealous of him. "But
Pat — " he added, "you mustn't hold it
against him. He's pretty well salted,
I guess."

"That's all right, Skeeter," Lynn
said. She was smiling. "It gives me
a chance to do what I've been wanting
to do all evening. Skeeter, will you
take me home, please?"

"Huh?"

"Take me home."

"Er — that's what I thought you
said," Skeeter gulped. "But — you see
— I haven't a car. Miss Lynn, and — "

you get here?" Lynn

we're going back,

LIOW did
' ' asked.

"On my bike."

"That's how
then," Lynn said.

"On my bike?"

"Certainly. I haven't ridden the
handlebars since I went to grammar
school."

And then it was like a dream.
Skeeter pedalled along the dusky
road, Lynn on the handlebars, leaning
back against him. Her hair was
ruffled by the wind and the sweet
smell of her made him a little dizzy.
Her hands, close to his on the handle-
bars, sent waves of thrills through
him.

The road dipped into a ravine and
Lynn suggested they stop by the river
wall. And then, she asked Skeeter to
lift her up on the wall. He put his
hands on her waist and she was very
close to him and he forgot what he
was supposed to be doing.

"Lift me up," Lynn said softly.

He moved, at last. Lynn settled
herself on the wall and offered her
hand to help him up beside her. He
didn't need any help. He felt as
though he had wings.

"Oh!" Lynn cried. "You almost
jumped clear over."

Skeeter looked down in back of him
and laughed. "Be a long drop," he
said. "Guess I'd look just as funny
falling down there as I do at anything
else."

"Skeeter, please," Lynn said.

And Skeeter was ashamed. "I'm
sorry, Miss Lynn," he said.

"And I think it's time for you to
drop the Miss," Lynn said. "Just Lynn
will be a lot easier."

"Lynn," Skeeter murmured. "That's
the prettiest name I've ever heard.
Wish I could tell you the things it
reminds me of."

"Tell me," Lynn said softly. She
slipped one of her small hands into
his coat pocket, murmuring that it
was cold.

It was so easy talking to Lynn, that
he found himself telling her about
the way he loved to watch the boats
on the river and wonder where they
went and how he used to like to
imagine they sailed far away into a
place no one had ever seen, a land
of little people and tinkling bells
and girls, all of them named Lynn.

"Why, Skeeter," Lynn said. "That's
lovely — like poetry." And she didn't
seem surprised that he should have
dreams like that.

CKEETER felt he had to tell her
** about Mr. Lane's offer.

"That means you'll be in the line-up
next season," Lynn said.

"Guess so," Skeeter said a little
sadly.

"That's wonderful, Skeeter!" Lynn
said. "I know you'll pitch with the
best of them."

There was encouragement, belief in
her voice and, suddenly, Skeeter's
heart was filled with gratitude. He
was thanking her, haltingly. Thank-
ing her for being kind to him, for
dancing with him, for letting him
take her home.

"Skeeter," she stopped him. "Is
that why you think I did it? Just to
be kind? Don't you believe a girl
might want to dance with you for any
other reason?"

Skeeter was afraid to answer her.

John Mclntire is the regular master
of ceremonies on Lincoln Highway, in-
troducing a different famous star
every week in a half-hour play. Tune
it in Saturday mornings on NBC-Red.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

He was afraid he might say too much,
might make her laugh at him. He
was glad the town bell began tolling
midnight. It was late. He had to get
Lynn home.

He helped her down from the wall.
Again, he was aware of her closeness,
her sweetness. His arms ached to
hold her to him. He let her go.

"Home is a good place," Lynn
whispered. Then, so low he almost
didn't hear, "But, you know where I'd
rather be going? To that land of little
people and tinkling bells — "

All that Spring, Skeeter's head was
full of Lynn. He worked very hard
at the training camp. He spent his
evenings alone in his room, writing
long letters to Lynn. He never sent
them. He poured out his heart in
those letters, he dared hope, dared
make plans that included her. But
Lynn never saw them. The letters
she got were humdrum affairs, about
camp routine, the weather, things like
that. Things any man might write
to anybody.

Skeeter felt he had to wait. He
wanted to make sure he had some-
thing to offer her, something besides
himself in the role of a clown. He
wanted to accomplish something,
make a little money so he could settle
down and do agricultural research,
which was what he'd studied for. He
wanted to show Lynn — and himself —
that he could do something besides
make people laugh.

THE training ended and the team
' went East for the opening of the
baseball season. For three weeks,
Skeeter sat in the dugout, waiting for
his chance. And then, in the seventh
inning of their last game in New
York, it came.

"Skeeter!" Mr. Lane was calling
him. Skeeter jumped up, "Okay,
get in there, Russell," Mr. Lane said.
"Don't let them get away from us.
The game's already in the bag. Just
hold the ground, that's all."

"Hold the ground?" Skeeter was
feeling good. "Mr. Lane, I'm going
to shut out the best they've got —
unless I break an arm."

Lane patted his shoulder. "Don't
worry about the game. We're too
far in the lead for them to catch up
now. Just go in there and be your-
self."

"Be myself?"

"Sure, sure," Lane said. "Lighten
the game up a bit. Give the crowd a
few laughs."

"You're sending me out — just to
make the crowd laugh?"

"So what?" Lane said.

"But — I'm a ball player." Skeeter
was panicky. "Look, Mr. Lane, I
didn't join the Giants to — "

"Wait a minute," Lane said. "I
don't care why you joined the Giants.
I hired you because you can make a
crowd laugh. We need a crowd
pleaser, just as much as we need
players. Now, scram out there and
do your stuff. Get funny!"

Something went wrong in Skeeter's
head then. "Get funny!" He passed
the dugout without seeing it. "Get
Funny!" He pushed past the door-
man to the dressing rooms. "GET
FUNNY!" The man tried to stop him,
send him back to the field, where his
name had already been announced,
but Skeeter hardly heard him.

"Look at me!" Skeeter yelled, push-
ing the frightened man back against
the wall. "Look at me! I'm funny!
Go on and laugh. No? I'll make a
face for you. How's that? What's

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the matter with you? Don't you think
I'm funny?"

"No," Skeeter heard the man's voice
from very far away. "No, I don't."

"Well, I do!" Skeeter shouted.
"Guess I'll have to do the laughing
myself." And he did laugh. He laughed
until it tore at his ribs and the tears
ran down his face, so it was hard for
him to change his clothes.

Then, he started walking. He was
never going to stop. His feet found
a highway and he kept on going.
Small towns, cities, rivers, plains. He
saw them all through a haze. He saw
people, sometimes, he talked to them.
And, as time ran past, up and down
the roads, he noticed that people
didn't laugh so much anymore. He
found the hurt leaving him. It took
a long time, but he got over it.

And, one day, because the road he
was on led that way, he wandered
back to Brewster City. He walked
along the tree-lined streets and, on
the bridge, he met Pat Hines.

"Well, I'll be doggoned!" Pat cried.
"Skeeter!"

THEY shook hands. There were the
usual questions. Where ya been?
Bumming around. What are you go-
ing to do? No plans. Then, Skeeter
asked him.

"How's Lynn?" and he found the
words sticking in his throat.

"I don't know," Pat said. "Haven't
heard a word from her in over a year.
She quit the beauty parlor and went
East."

"Too bad," Skeeter said. "Thought
I'd look her up." He was trying to
sound cold, casual. "Swell girl, Lynn."

Suddenly, Pat was angry. "You're
a fine one to say that — after the way
you treated her."

"After — the way I treated her?"

"Oh, come off it," Pat said. "If it
weren't for you, Lynn never would
have left Brewster City."

"Pat, what are you talking about?"

"You broke her heart," Pat said.
"She was in love with you and you — "

Skeeter grabbed Pat's shoulder.
"What are you talking about? Do
you know what you're saying?"

"Sure. She told me herself. She
cried it all out on my shoulder, when
she came back from New York."

"She was in New York? When?"

"When you went East to play with
the Giants," Pat said. "She went to
see you play. Only you didn't. They
announced you, one game, but you
never appeared on the diamond. And,
when she went back to the dressing
rooms, the man there said you'd left."

"Pat, you wouldn't kid about a thine
like this?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"No. But it's impossible," Skeeter
said. "Lynn is so beautiful. She

could have had her pick of the roost.
How could a girl like Lynn fall for
someone like me? She was sorry for
me, that's all."

"Call it what you like," Pat said.
"Pity's not what Lynn called it. She
was in love. Well, that's water under
the bridge. She's gone — Lord knows
where." Pat looked at his watch.
"I've got to beat it, Skeeter. Be see-
ing you."

Skeeter stood there on the bridge
for hours. He remembered Lynn. He
remembered every word she had ever
said to him. He remembered how she
had said it. And, after awhile, he
began to understand.

That night at the dance — it wasn't
pity. She had almost told him so,
only he was too blind, too wrapped
up in his own desire not to make her
laugh at him, that he hadn't had time
to notice how she felt, to wonder.
She wanted to be with him, that's
why she had asked him to take her
home. She wanted to be in his arms,
she wanted him to kiss her, that's why
she asked to be lifted up on the wall.
She knew he loved her and she
wanted him to tell her so. But he
had been afraid.

Skeeter hated himself. "It wasn't
enough that you were made so people
laughed at you," he muttered to him-
self. "You had to be blind, too."
He had to do something — now that he
knew. Maybe it wasn't too late.

He had gone to Bonnie Simmons,
right away, and asked her for Lynn's
address. "I've got one," Bonnie had
said. "But it's almost a year old. She
might not be there anymore." He
had written, at once.

SKEETER Russell pulled himself
back out of the past. One corner of
the envelope was a little crumpled.
He had been holding it very tight.
Now, here was his answer and he was
afraid to open it.

Steeling himself to face whatever
was in the letter, he tore open the
flap. His hands shook a little.

"Dear, darling Skeeter," he read.
"You'll never know how happy I was
to hear from you — and to read the-
things you told me in your letter.
I've loved you, dearest, for what seems
like ages. I begin to see the things
I was afraid we'd missed — the land
we never saw — the tinkling bells. Oh,
I know we'll both have the happiness
that's been so long delayed. I can
hardly wait until I'm on my way home
— to you."

Skeeter looked up. The room was
somehow filled with sunlight. And
suddenly, deep inside him, laughter
was born. Laughter such as he had
never known before, good laughter,
happy laughter that welled up like
singing inside. Beautiful laughter.

S«?MMZ-

JOHN "BUD" HIESTAND — whose breezy, informal way of announc-
ing adds to the pleasure of Kay Kyser's Musical College program
on NBC-Red every Wednesday. Bud passed his first radio audition
at station KFI in Los Angeles in 1934, and has been on the air
steadily ever since. He was born in Madison, Wisconsin, and brought
to California by his parents when he was a boy. In 1930 he gradu-
ated from Stanford University with a degree in political science.
He's six feet two, with blond curly hair and a winning smile, and
has played the role of radio announcer in many a movie. Bud's
married to Joane Wood, radio actress and writer, and the daughter of
movie director Sam Wood. He plays piano, banjo, guitar and drums.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Your Marriage Happiness

(Continued from page 29)

in a night club. All my work before
that had been on the stage. I was
terrified to think of singing to people
so close they could reach out and
touch me. I was accustomed to hav-
ing footlights and an orchestra be-
tween me and my audience. So I
was scared to death and he was prob-
ably justified in shaking his head the
way he did.

"You'll never make it," he said.

But he didn't fire me and before a
month had passed, we were working
on original songs together. I was
never frightened when he was at the
piano. Then, of course, we discovered
that we liked each other. In fact, we
loved each other. We decided to get
married.

Think back on your own first year
of marriage. Remember all those
things that used to drive you wild?
The way he read the paper at the
breakfast table. The way he left his
clothes all over the place for you to
pick up. The casual way he dropped
ashes in his coffee cup — what a mess!
That was the bad year of getting
adjusted to each other. Sometimes
you felt you had married a complete
stranger. That's when you said, "I've
had as much of this as I can stand.
I'm through!"
It was no different for us.

I REMEMBER I used to get so mad I
' would flounce out of the house. I'd
get so mad I'd throw things. Don't
smile. If you just think back, I'll bet
you'll remember you felt the same
way. Maybe you didn't actually throw
things, but I'll bet you often wanted
to. Maybe you cried instead. Or
nagged. Or bought a hat you couldn't
afford.

Now of course I didn't mean any of
those things seriously any more than
you did. I always meant to come back
when I flounced out of the house and
I never meant to hit anything when I
threw. They were emotional outlets
to express something I had not yet
learned to express any other way.

They had their inevitable result.
Everything went wrong. Friends,
finances, work, home fell all to pieces
because we were creating a bad en-
vironment— an environment in which
good could not operate. We were
brought up short the day we realized
we had no jobs, no money, no pros-
pects, no happiness. We were forced
to try to understand what the trouble
was and try to correct it. Not to blame
each other or the world or Fate, but
to see where our own faults lay and
to change them.

The trouble was that we were not
talking things over together — calmly,
frankly, intelligently. We were act-
ing like children, as so many married
couples — and not always young ones,
either! — do.

Why is it that people find it so
difficult to talk to each other as human
beings and not just as man and wife?
Often I think it is because of pride.
The woman is too proud of her mys-
tery, her allure for her husband. She
is afraid that if she talks to him
frankly — man to man — he will see
that she is just another person like
himself and will lose interest in her
as a woman.

The man, on the other hand, is often
too proud of his importance. He is
afraid that if he frankly admits his

SEPTEMBER, 1941

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Big Sister serial, who married
her director, Willson M. Tuttle.

troubles, his mistakes, his problems,
she will lose respect for him as the
perfect, all-powerful male. He will
lose his position as head of the house.

There's no place for false pride in
marriage. Such false prides as these
are as dangerous to happiness as they
are pathetic in human beings. How
can two people live intimately to-
gether unless they do talk freely and
frankly to each other, try to under-
stand and help each other?

But it is not always possible to
achieve such frank understanding be-
tween man and wife. I know at first
I tried all the feminine tricks — scold-
ing, teasing, flirting, even crying — to
get my husband's confidence. It hurt
me that he found it difficult to tell me
things — things I felt I had a right to
know. Naturally a more voluble per-
son, I felt I was being cheated when
I poured out my heart and met no
answering response.

THEN, when the crisis came, and we
found ourselves faced with bank-
ruptcy— emotional as well as financial
— I made a great discovery. I realized
that it was hurting Sylvan as much
as it was hurting me. It was making
him even more unhappy than it was
making me. Actually I was not the
one who was suffering because I was
able to get emotional relief by getting
mad or throwing things — which was
just as bad. I saw that I was wrong.
I wanted to help him.

So we learned to talk things over.
We had to. We had to learn to say,
without sulking or without being
angry, "Can't we talk this over?" And
it worked. And not only our marriage,
but everything else we did, was hap-
pier and more successful for it.

If you can learn to say "Can't we
talk this over?" without nagging or
crying or scolding or teasing, you will
be a long way on the road to a success-
ful marriage. And don't, for heaven's
sake, spoil it by saying, after you have
tried it and it has worked, "I told you
so!" You are not doing it to show
how smart you are, but to help build
a solid foundation for a happy life
together.

Then, what about those little things
that everybody in the world does, lit—

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

tie habits that are so annoying to the
people who live with them? We had
to face those, too, just as you all have
to do.

My husband, for instance, loves to
come into the house, drop into a
chair, and fall asleep. I have never
been able to understand why he
wouldn't rather go upstairs, stretch
out on the bed, and. take a comfortable
nap. But could I persuade him to do
that? You know — because your hus-
band probably does something like
that, too — that I could not!

On the other hand, I like to lie abed
late in the morning, often just to read
or relax. It's a habit I fell into from
being in the theater all my life. After
working late hours, you just don't get
up in the morning. But, even now,
when I am not working theater hours,
I still have the habit. I don't want
to get up in the morning and go for
a walk. Sylvan often does. He can't
understand why I don't want to get
up and go with him.

These two little habits caused us a
lot of trouble at first. But we have
come to see that such little things are
far from being essential in a happy
marriage. Neither of us likes the
other's little habits, but they are not
important enough to fight over and
we don't fight over them. You can
always try saying pleasantly, "I wish
you wouldn't do that, dear." But if it
is a habit of such long standing that
it is impossible to break, the best
thing you can do is put up with it.

Such habits are small things. But
what about that big threat to any
marriage — jealousy? Jealousy can
grow out of a lack of trust or a lack
of frankness or out of nothing at all.
It can be used as a technique by a
frightened woman who thinks her
husband is losing interest in her. Or
by a restless woman to have a little
fun. Or it can be created out of a
harmless friendship by a suspicious
man or woman.

I THINK there is only one way to de-
■ stroy jealousy — by creating a feel-
ing of perfect trust. I have been
accustomed to the friendship of many
men with whom I worked in the
theater. They are men I like or admire,
men I see constantly, pals of mine, co-
workers. Should I give up seeing
them, being gay and friendly with
them because it makes my husband
jealous? I say, decidedly not! It
seems to me that such restrictions do
nothing but close a person into a
frightened, fear-full existence where
any natural remark or act may be con-
sidered improper. It's not fair for a
woman — or a man, either — to have to
live that way. Let her have faith in
her own character so that she can say

to her husband, "I will not allow you
to think of me in that way. If I
have ever given you any cause for
real suspicion, you would have the
right to distrust me. But I have not
and I do not intend to. You must be-
lieve me. You must trust me. And I
will not cause you any heartache be-
cause of that trust."

Would I be jealous myself? Cer-
tainly, if there were any cause. If my
husband were really to fall in love
with somebody else, I know I would
be ill — physically ill — with jealousy.
But I pay him the compliment of
trusting him. In his work as a
pianist, he sees many pretty girls.
When I worked at Billy Rose's "Dia-
mond Horse Shoe" club in New York,
many of the chorus girls there insisted
they were crazy about my husband.
Naturally, I could not blame them.
I'm crazy about him myself. But
should it worry me and make me un-
happy when another girl says, even
in a joke, "When are you going to let
me go out with your husband, Bea-
trice?" Not at all. The more restric-
tions set up around such outside
friendships, the more dangerous they
become.

DEMEMBER and apply your child
■» psychology. Children always seem
to want most the things that are for-
bidden them. Why? Because they
seem so much more attractive. Apply
a little of this psychology to your
husband. Why make another woman
seem more attractive to him by sur-
rounding her with the attraction of
forbidden fruit? All you succeed in
doing is to make her seem a goal to
be gained, not just a friend who is
pleasant and interesting but not par-
ticularly desirable. And remember,
if your own marriage is a satisfying
one, there is little temptation for
your husband to find satisfaction
elsewhere.

I am not talking now about the
problems of a physical adjustment
about which a doctor should be con-
sulted. Or about the problems of
where you will live, how much you
will be able to live on, what kind of
family you will have and when.
These problems are as individual as
people themselves. Nobody can make
any hard and fast rules about them.
Nobody can foresee what is around
the next marital corner and every
new problem has to be met by itself
as a special case.

But remember this. It's worth it —
solving every problem the grownup,
sensible way. For there's an even
deeper satisfaction, a greater joy in
marriage after the honeymoon is over
if you do. Believe me, I know. And
you can find out.

S^^e£&Z-

LIONEL STANDER— the sandpaper-voiced star of The Life of Riley
over CBS Saturday mornings. You've seen him in the movies, but
just now he's devoting his time to radio and to producing plays on
Broadway. Lionel became an actor when he left college. Before
that he was interested mostly in football, but had difficulty staying
in one school long enough to play it much. He explains that the
faculty thought he ought to attend classes, but he disagreed. Acting
wasn't very successful either, for a while, and he supported himself
by working at other jobs. In 1934 he made a hit in a Noel Coward
movie, "The Scoundrel," which was filmed in New York, and Holly-
wood snapped him up. He's not half as tough as he sounds on the air.

"I WONDER if it would end all regular
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To the girl or woman asking that ques-
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But in most cases where there is no organic
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and should for you.'

Understand, Midol may give you com-
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But others experience only an easier time.
Even so, isn't the measure of relief you re-
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"Yes, but won't Midol form some
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increases relief by reducing spasmodic pain
peculiar to the menstrual process.

So don't keep Midol for "emergencies."
Let it keep you comfortable throughout the
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days" for active, carefree living 1

That, exactly, is what Midol means to
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ported using Midol to relieve functional
menstrual pain than all other preparations
combined. And 96% of these Midol users
said they found Midol effective.

Look for these tablets on your drugstore
counter, or just ask for Midol. The large size,
a trim aluminum case that tucks into purse
or pocket, is only 40c; the small size, 20e.

SEPTEMBER, 1941

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Once outside, I had a quick revul-
sion of feeling. It had been a lie, all
that he had told me. Philip had not
believed him. Even now he was try-
ing to find me. He had stayed, and
let the ship go out to sea without him.
I called at the steamship office. I
waited while the clerk checked the
lists. I never had needed more
strength than I did to wait there,
while he looked to see. I still couldn't
believe, not even when he had said,
"Yes, madam. Philip Turrell sailed.
An hour ago. On the SS. Rio."

I went back to singing at the night
club. Because I could think of noth-
ing else to do. And I had to have
something. I sang the same songs, but
they were different now, more sad,
more like tangoes. Some, it seemed,
preferred the songs that- way. Other
clubs that had not noticed me until
then began to make me offers. A
radio station asked me to broadcast.
My associates, my friends, my man-
ager urged me to accept one of these
offers. But it didn't matter where I
was and it was easier to refuse.

It was Brenda who would not accept
my heartbreak. She said I was more
lovely and my voice better than ever
and that I must accept the radio sta-
tion's offer. But I shook my head. I
didn't care. Until Brenda cried. I had
never seen her cry. I had forgotten
that anyone else could have grief. I
thought all of it that was in the world
was mine now. I reached out and took
her hand.

Brenda, I will sing anywhere you
wish."

Heartbreakers

(Continued from page 21)

I no longer felt completely chilled.
Someone loved me enough to cry. I
accepted the radio offer.

I chose my programs carefully so
that I would be a success. It was all
like a dream, the studio applause, the
mail showering in, gifts for me. There
were offers too, from other bigger
stations, and my station even ar-
ranged to have my broadcast carried
to the United States. My manager saw
money, gold and silver, shining
through the applause. But I saw a
young, clean face with a boyish and
daring mouth.

I MUST have known what would
' happen when my manager read me
the cable; he was provoked because
I showed no more excitement. "You
would think it was nothing," he
stormed. "Just an offer from one of
the most famous night clubs in the
whole United States, that's all."

I was not more excited because
nothing would be real again. So I did
not explain to him, but left him to
arrange the contracts and the reserva-
tions on the ship and I let him think
the tears in my eyes were from
pleasure.

So that was how I sailed from
Buenos. My heart caught when I
went to the pier and saw the luggage
piled high alongside the sleek side of
the beautiful ship. Once before my
luggage had been there and the purser
had reserved a honeymoon suite for
a bride who was never met by her
groom. Slowly we steamed out
toward the foam flecked broad high-

way of ocean and the salt of the spray
from the waves was less than from
my tears.

Then I was in the United States — a
great lady, a famous singer to whom
crowds flocked every night, applaud-
ing, demanding encore after encore.
So famous that one day I sat in the
cool, paneled offices of a big network
and read a contract that a cigarette
sponsor was asking me to sign, for a
series of weekly broadcasts that
would carry my voice from coast to
coast.

I sang — oh how desperately I sang —
to a radio audience of millions, for
each thing now that I did I must do
well. I broadcast from the network's
largest studio so that a few thousands
of our listeners each week could come
and see in person the program as it
went out on the air. I sang, while my
heart whispered "Philip — Philip," and
my sadness carried the songs to my
listeners. Sometimes I wondered if I
were a little mad, because I'd look at
my audience, sitting there in front of
me, row after row of faces all staring
up at me, and I would see — him, only
him, not a roomful of people at all,
but clearly and perfectly just him,
exactly as I saw him whenever I
closed my eyes.

But finally one night I stood there
in front of the microphone ready for
my song, looking out over the studio
of people smiling welcome, applauding
with delight, and among them I really
saw — him. Not a roomful making up
his face but his face among all the
others, so that it could not be a dream,

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

but must be reality.

Habit, shock, the numbness of sur-
prise sustained me and I began to sing
in time with the melody of music from
the orchestra behind me. The hall
was a whirling mist. There was no
feel of ground beneath my feet. But I
continued to sing, through to the final
note of the last violin. And then in
the space of a single breath I was off
the stage, down through the ropes and
backdrops of the theater, and out of
the studio. He would be waiting at the
door and I must not keep him. But he
hadn't arrived when I got there. I
darted back to the audience entrance.
Trembling, I was at the door in half
a dozen fleeting seconds.

I moved soundlessly into the studio.
The broadcast was not quite ended
yet. I looked up the aisle and saw,
where he had been, only a vacant
chair. Had my eyes, my mind, my wish
created for themselves that image of
him that I had seen? Terrified, I crept
out of the studio. Down the hall,
across from me I saw the man again
that I had thought was Philip. He
glanced back once, then disappeared
into the elevator he had summoned.
And he — he was Philip. I had not
imagined him. But now he had fled,
had not wanted this meeting.

That night I knew desolation. I
shall never again live such another
week as that which followed. Because
should I ever have all hope crushed
from me again, I will never find the
courage to live. I went to rehearsals
with my head aching so that I couldn't
see the notes I was trying to sing.

And then it was the night of the
broadcast again and I was on the stage,
the blinding whiteness of the spot-
lights flooding my white face, ac-

centuating the red smear of my lips,
and the ebony blackness of my hair.

Only when my song ended did I
dare to look to see if he was there.
But by then I think I knew that I
would see him. Because I looked di-
rectly to where he was and into the
blue flash of his eyes. He made no
move to leave but he so easily could
be gone before I could get through
backstage and reach him. I must make
him remain, must make him want to
stay. I somehow must hold him,
though my voice, the microphone, my
songs were the only means I pos-
sessed. What prompted me I don't
know, but in place of the introduction
I should have made to my next song,
I said:

"Once in my home country, a boy
and a girl were in love. They would
have married, but an older man, who
knew nothing at all about the girl, told
the boy lies about her, so that he
would not marry her. He thought it
would be better for the boy's career.
After the boy had left, this man ad-
mitted what he had done. But the
boy still believed the lies. The song
I am going to sing to you now, is the
song the girl would have written to
the boy if she could have written
songs. But she could only sing them."

IT was the most beautiful of all my
' love songs that I sang then. Sang it
and then was running off the stage,
the fear of desperation lending me the
speed that would keep Philip from
disappearing without a word. But I
had no need of this fear or this frantic
running. For he came striding up to
the door just as I opened it and he
spoke my name and I answered.
"Philip!"

He flung out his hands but I drew
back. I was afraid. And he said, his
hands dropping at his sides,

"I don't blame you. I thought you
would never forgive me. But your
song seemed to say that you could and
I thought — "

He broke off abruptly, then said,
"That you had forgiven me. Though
I don't know how you could. Last
week I only meant to come and look
at you again just once. I couldn't
help it. I had to see you again. And
when I did, I realized how much you
still meant to me. But I — I couldn't
trust myself to risk meeting you. I
ran away. I didn't mean to come again.
But I did. I came to tell you that no
matter what I did or what anyone
said, I love you, and always have."

"But that day you sailed — " I began.

He paused, then said,

"I don't know why I believed him.
Except that he always had been a
good friend. I'd never known him to
lie about anything. And at first I was
angry and hurt and disappointed. So
I went without calling you. And ever
since I have been fighting against what
he said, against what I thought I
should believe and finally I had to
come back to you. Not because I
thought you could forgive me, but
only to ask you to."

"Perhaps it would have been more
polite if I had waited for you to
ask," I said. "But I didn't dare wait.
So instead, I gave an old song a new
introduction and changed the old
words around so that I could tell you
that I forgave you long ago."

With a twisted smile, he held out
his arms again and this time they
closed around me, shutting me in
happiness and shutting out loneliness.

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Facing the Music

{Continued from page 9)

Akron, Ohio. His dad was in the rub-
ber business. This took the family
around the country often and by the
time the boy was ready to study medi-
cine at Carnegie Tech, he had lived in
three other states.

Depression came and Vaughn was
forced to leave his studies and get a
job with Austin Wiley's band after
three years at the university. He
tooted for Wiley until the band folded
six months later.

Then came three years with Larry
Funk's orchestra. For the most part
Vaughn concentrated on playing his
trumpet. Then one night, annoyed
with the band's often inebriated vo-
calist, Vaughn asked Larry for a
chance to sing. Funk was dubious but
finally agreed. Once Vaughn's resonant
baritone rang out, the dancers hud-
dled near the bandstand. The ap-
plause was deafening and Funk al-
most dropped his baton. Vaughn was
given more opportunities, kept stop-
ping the show. Funk then dismissed
his other singer.

But Vaughn realized that he was
making little progress and in 1937 left
Funk, to join Jack Marshard's band
in Boston. Marshard was an alert
business man. When two simultaneous
offers came for the band's services,
Jack accepted both. He took his
regular crew to Bar Harbor, hastily
rounded up a patchwork ensemble for
the other job and gave Monroe the
baton. This was for a summer run at
Cape Cod. The social set there liked
the singing substitute well enough to
treat his pickup band gently.

Marshard saw Monroe's possibilities
and hired Johnny Watson, Jan Savitt's
able arranger, to develop a real" band
behind Vaughn. Leonard Joy of RCA-
Victor heard the band, approved four
test records, and signed them. Vaughn
had a hunch this was the break he
was waiting for and sent for his
schoolday sweetheart, Marion Baugh-
man. They were married a day after
she arrived.

The records clicked immediately.
Some of the hits were "There I Go,"
"Donkey Serenade," "Pagliacci,"
"Take It Jackson," and the sensational
"Salud, Dinero y Amor," which sold
110.000 copies. The jukebox patrons
yelled for more. It was refreshing to
hear a leader who could sing.

After a trial spin in Boston's Hotel
Statler, the band played the New
York Paramount. After three success-
ful weeks there, they were ready for
any and all comers.

Added to the band was 23-year-old,
blackhaired Marilyn Duke. Marilyn
stands five feet nine in her stocking
feet and is the tallest girl vocalist in

the business.

If Vaughn's movie possibilities ma-
terialize by December, here's a tip to
Hollywood real estate agents: submit
a nursery in the blue print plans.
Mrs. Monroe, a tall girl who received
a master's degree from the University
of Pittsburgh, was feverishly knitting
a baby sweater all during my inter-
view.

"Everytime someone in the band
strikes a sour note in rehearsals,"
Vaughn remarked wryly as he gazed
at his blonde wife, "Marion drops a
stitch."

OFF THE RECORD
Some Like It Sweet:

Bobby Byrne: (Decca 3773) "Nighty-
Night"— "Do I Worry?" — A simple
summer tune that will get you whistling.
The turnover is an expert ballad that is
also well played by Claude Thornhill
on Okeh 6178.

Eddy Duchin: (Columbia 36089)
"Maria Elena" — "Time and Time
Again" — The nimble-fingered pianist
sets the first song in waltz setting.

Jimmy Dorsey: (Decca 3710) "My
Sister and I"— "Hush of the Night"—
There have been carloads of new songs
taking for their themes the glory that
was once Europe, but this refugee ballad
continues as the cream of the crop, espe-
cially when Bob Eberly sings it. Reverse
is a moden treatment of Rimsky-Korsa-
koff's "Scheherazade."

Tommy Tucker: (Okeh 6211) "You
Are My Sunshine" — "New Worried
Mind" — Stickily sentimental reminder
of "I'll Never Smile Again."
(Recommended Albums: The Andre
Kostelanetz-Alec Templeton alliance for
Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" (Colum-
bia); Eddy Duchin's Gershwin piano
package (Columbia) and Joe Reich-
man's Victor keyboard collection of
memorable melodies.)
Some Like It Swing:

Andrews Sisters: (Decca 3732)
"Aurora" — "Music Makers" — Another
Andrews accomplishment.

Tommy Dorsey: (Victor 27421) "Yes,
Indeed"— "Will You Still Be Mine"—
T. D. pours everything into the "A" side
for an exciting reproduction.

Harry James: (Columbia 36160)
"Trumpet Rhapsody" — The advance bal-
lyhoo was a handicap for this one, de-
spite James' dynamic trumpeting.

Count Basie: (Okeh 6157) "Wiggle
Woogie" — "Jump the Blues Away" —
Played in the accented Harlem manner.

Ozzie Nelson: (Bluebird 11155) "Beat
It Out" — "Where" — Fast and clean are
these tunes from the film "Sweetheart of
the Campus" but Harriet Hilliard's vo-
cal is disappointing.

SyM&ZL

LOUISE KING— eldest of the four beautiful King Sisters who sing
with Alvino Rey's dance band on the Mutual network. She's also Mrs.
Alvino Rey in private life, and she definitely isn't to be confused
with the Louise King who sings on the Hit Parade. Louise was
born in Payson, Utah, and started singing with her sisters in
high school entertainments. After a year or so of doing this as
a hobby, it suddenly occurred to her that here was a good way of
earning money, and her career was launched. She designs her own
clothes, and her biggest ambition is to have a baby girl with brown
curls. The other three King Sisters on the air are Donna, Alyce
and Yvonne; two other sisters and two brothers are non-professional.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Young Doctor Malone

(Continued from page 28)

She shrugged expressively. "I'd like
to tell her that, too, but I think she'd
resent it ... I won't try to see you
again, Jerry, until and unless you
make the first move."

Even in his embarrassment, he was
stirred to admiration for her complete
honesty. Only later, and then doubt-
fully, was it to occur to him that an
even more honest course would have
been to drop silently out of his life,
denying herself the bittersweet pleas-
ure of confessing her love for him.
But just now he did not think of that.

"I don't know — quite what to say,"
he stammered.

"Then don't say anything at all,"
she advised briskly, with an abrupt
return to her usual brittle manner.
"I've spoken my piece, and it's getting
late, and we must both run." She
stood up, offering her hand. "Goodbye,
Jerry."

He watched her walk away. It was
like her not to prolong a scene that
satisfied her sense of drama by waiting
while he paid for their tea, saw her
to a cab.

Jerry said nothing to Ann of
Veronica's return; she saw the news
in the society column of a newspaper,
and wondered if Jerry knew, if he
had seen her. But she did not ask.

HE could not quite analyze his own
feelings about Veronica. As the
days went by he was conscious of a
vague frustration. There seemed to be
no one, now, with whom he could be
entirely natural, and he remembered
the easy comradeship of that sunny
afternoon on Pirate Island, before the
storm came up and held him and
Veronica there. It was disloyal to
Ann, of course, to think of that after-
noon, and he put it out of his mind.
But the necessity of doing so only in-
creased his irritation.

It was with a definite start of pleas-
ure that he answered the telephone
at the apartment one evening about
nine o'clock, and recognized Veronica's
voice.

"I'm not breaking my promise," she
said. "It's just that something has
happened that requires the services
of a doctor, and I can't seem to locate
that brother-in-law of mine. Do you
know where he is?"

Dunham had left that morning for
Washington, to be gone several days,
Jerry told her.

"Then I guess I'll have to beg you
to come," Veronica said. "It's rather
a delicate business — not something we
could call in just anyone for. I'll tell
you when I see you — I'm still at
Jessie's, and I'm calling for her,
really."

"I'll be right over," he promised.

"And Jerry — " she said oddly,
"we'll have to drive up to Westchester.
It may keep you out quite late."

"A doctor's used to that." As he
hung up he felt the beginnings of cu-
riosity. Veronica's guarded words, the
hint of "delicacy" in the case, the
warning of a late night — what could
all this mean? In any event, it would
be impossible for him to refuse a re-
quest of Jessie Hughes'; he owed that
imperious old lady too much for intro-
ducing him to Dr. Dunham and thus
helping him to his present prosperity.

Entering the living room, where
Ann sat with Penny and Bun, he in-
voluntarily began to express some of

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his curiosity. "That's funny," he said.
"I've got to ride up to Westchester — ■
some mysterious case of Mrs.
Hughes'."

Ann, glancing up from her book, had
frozen at the mention of Mrs. Hughes'
name. He saw that, and remembered
how much she disliked Mrs. Hughes
and the change she had brought to his
work. Feeling embarrassed, he said
nothing more except that he might be
out rather late.

Veronica, in fur coat and hat, met
him at the door of the Hughes mansion
on Fifth Avenue. "We'll go right on
out," she said, "and I'll tell you all
about it on the way."

The night was clear and cold, and
Jerry rolled up the windows of his
little coupe and switched the heater
on. Weaving through the traffic
toward the West Side highway, he
listened while Veronica explained
that a man, a guest of Mrs. Hughes on
her Westchester estate, had suddenly
fallen ill and needed medical atten-
tion.

"I can't tell you his name, I don't
know it myself," she said. "He's some-
one important from South America,
here to talk to Jessie and some other
Wall Street bigwigs about a loan of
some kind. No one's supposed to know
he's in the United States at all, and
there'd be the devil of a mixup if it
leaked out. That's why Jessie called
me and said to get Lawrence or you."

CHE took a cigarette from her silver
*^ case and lit it, using the electric
match from he dashboard. Jerry
could see her finely modelled face
reflected intermittently in the wind-
shield as the tiny red glow brightened
under the intake of her breath. Then
she pushed the electric appliance back
into place, and there was only the
spark of the cigarette in the darkness.

"I saw my former husband today,"
she said musingly after a silence. "It
was . . . peculiar . . . meeting this
haggard-looking man, and realizing
that once I'd loved him. Shared my
life with him . . . And now he's just —
someone I knew, long ago."

Jerry looked at her with curiosity.
It was the first time she had ever
mentioned the man whose name she
wore, and now, swathed in her furs,
leaning back in the opposite corner of
the seat, she seemed more to be think-
ing aloud than speaking to him.

"You'd have thought we had every-
thing when we were married," she
sighed. "Youth, plenty of money,
good looks, love. And we were happy
together, for a while. I suppose it was
as much my fault as it was Jim's. I
don't think anyone can say just how
a marriage breaks up. Anyway, there
were quarrels, and then he began to
drink too much, and finally — other
women. So we were divorced. And
now — he's tired, and defeated, and
poor. I felt so sorry for him."

I don't think anyone can say just
how a marriage breaks up. The words
struck Jerry with chilly force. They
were so true. Emotions wounded in
secret, resentments never expressed,
thoughts not shared, these were the
things that hurt a marriage. He and
Ann . . .

He shook his head violently. What
was he thinking of? He and Ann
weren't breaking up; they were only
going through a difficult time, -an ad-
justment period.

He pressed his foot down on the
accelerator. They were on the park-
way now, and it was after ten, so
there was little traffic. They made
good time the rest of the way, talking
not at all except when Veronica di-
rected him along the unfamiliar way
to Mrs. Hughes' estate.

The ornate pseudo-English manor
house was alive with lights when they
arrived. Mrs. Hughes met them in the
hall, volubly irritated because they
had not arrived sooner, and led Jerry
upstairs to where a swarthy little man
lay in one of the bedrooms. He ap-
peared to be in great pain, but there
was nothing really wrong with him,
Jerry discovered, except acute in-
digestion. Inwardly Jerry smiled at
the thought that this unprepossessing,
bad-tempered person with the un-
reliable stomach was important to the
history of his country; from what
Veronica had said it appeared that
Washington was aware of his visit and
anxious that everything go well with
it.

Well, he reflected wearily after he
had done what he could and had
waited until Senor Nameless had
fallen into a troubled sleep, it was
none of his business. He glanced at his
watch and discovered with surprise
that it was two o'clock in the morning.

Veronica and Mrs. Hughes were
waiting for him when he came down.
"He'll be all right," Jerry told them.

"Thank heaven for that," Jessie
Hughes said fervently. "Now you'd
better get to bed yourself, young man.
You look worn out."

"Oh, I'm going back to New York.
I'll call you tomorrow, and if it seems
necessary I'll come up."

VERONICA rose from a chair by the
fire. "I'll stay here with Jessie,"
she said, 'if you don't mind driving
back by yourself."

"Of course not."

It was after three when Jerry got
back to New York and berthed his
car in the garage a block from the
apartment house. As he opened the
door to get out something fell with a
metallic clatter to the running board
and from there to the cement floor.
He picked it up: Veronica's silver
cigarette case. She must have left it
in the car when they arrived at Mrs.
Hughes' estate.

Mechanically, he put it into a pocket
of his suit. Its presence there sank
unnoticed into a mind sodden with
fatigue; he forgot all about it. Ann
found it the next day when she was
going through the pockets of the suit
before sending it to the cleaner.

It lay heavy and smooth in her
hand, a suave envelope of silver with
only the monogram, V.F., for decora-
tion. She did not know how long she
stood there, looking at it.

Jerry had told her only that Jessie
Hughes had called him on a case. He
had been gone almost all night, and
this morning he had said that Mrs.
Hughes wanted him to attend a guest

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at her Westchester home. His explana-
tion had been elaborately brief, it
seemed in retrospect.

And why should he go all the way
to Westchester to attend a patient?
Weren't there plenty of doctors there?

It was not anger, it was not jealousy,
that welled up in her as she stood
holding the cigarette case; it was
simply an infinite weariness and hope-
lessness. She did not want to confront
Jerry with the case and watch his
face as he tried to manufacture an
explanation. She did not want to see
him being guilty and ashamed. She
only wanted to go away somewhere
and not think about how their mar-
riage had changed from something
gay and lovely into a precarious ar-
rangement that could at any moment
wither away and vanish completely.

If I could just take a few weeks, she
thought, and stay with Aunt Ellen in
Chicago. Then I could get hold of
myself again, find some solid ground
on which to stand. Everything whirls
around me here. Once, when I was a
little girl, I went in wading in a moun-
tain river. I waded out too far, and all
at once the current caught me and
began pulling at my legs. I couldn't
stand up, every time I tried to the
current whipped my feet out from
under me, and if Dad hadn't come out
and helped me I might have drowned.
. . . It's like that now. I feel the same
sense of helplessness. But this time
there's no one to come out and help
me.

I SUPPOSE it is cowardly to run
' away, not to fight for my home and
my husband. But I can't fight, not now.
I haven't the strength, nor the desire.
And if I have to fight to hold Jerry,
I don't want him. I don't want a hus-
band who isn't so much a part of me
that there's no question of fighting."

All day her resolution hardened,
and that evening she told Jerry she
wanted to go to Chicago.

"Chicago!" he said in amazement.
'What for? And how long?"

"I don't know," she answered. "A
few weeks. Maybe longer."

"But why?"

They were in their bedroom; she
turned and took the cigarette case
from a bureau drawer. Trying to
speak quietly she said, "This was in
the pocket of your suit."

She had thought he would look
guilty, caught. Instead, after the first
surprise, his face hardened. "Yes," he
said. "What of it?"

"You were with Veronica Farrell
last night. You told me you were out
on a case."

Oh, stop it, stop it, something was
screaming inside her. What makes
you act this way — so cheap, being the
prying, suspicious wife? But she
couldn't stop.

Jerry's face had gone quite white.
His nostrils looked pinched. She had
never seen him like this, and at first
she did not realize he was furiously
angry.

"Didn't it occur to you that it's just
possible I might see Veronica at Mrs.
Hughes'? If you like, I'll give you an
itemized report of last night. I met
Veronica at Mrs. Hughes' town house
and we drove together to the estate in
Westchester. She stayed there. I came
home alone. I picked her cigarette
case out of the car — she'd left it there
by accident. Is there anything else
you'd like to know?"

"Yes !" she blazed at him. "Why
was it necessary for you to go up there
at all? Why couldn't Mrs. Hughes call

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some Westchester doctor?"

He opened his mouth to answer,
then closed it again into lines of stub-
bornness. "I could tell you that, too,"
he said at last. "But I don't intend to.
You'll have to take a few things, at
least, on trust."

Their eyes locked, and held. Ann
was the first to give way. One hand
went to her forehead, pushing back
the curls of dark brown hair. "I've
got to be alone, Jerry," she said
dazedly. "I'm all confused. I find my-
self doing things — thinking things —
that are hateful. ... I really think I'd
better go away, and try to straighten
myself out."

"That's nonsense," he said in so gruff
a voice that she knew his fury was
leaving him.

"No it isn't," Ann insisted wearily.
"For your sake, too, I'd better go. We
haven't been happy together lately,
why pretend we have? Let me go,
Jerry. Think of it as a marriage vaca-
tion, if you want to. But please let
me go."

"Ann — " One hand went out to her,
but then it and his voice both dropped.
"All right. If you think that's best."

VERY strange, how empty a city of
seven million people could seem
when one person had left it.

He had his work, of course, but it
no longer was completely absorbing —
perhaps because it was not the sort
of work he had done at Franklin
Hospital, perhaps only because he
could never approach it freshly and
happily. Penny did her best to make
the apartment seem as if Ann were
away for only a day or two. She
cooked his favorite dishes and chat-
tered merrily when he was home.
And Bun, who had accepted Ann's
departure with puzzled concern, was
amusing and pathetic in his efforts to
be and do everything Jerry desired.

Letters came at too-regular inter-
vals from Ann, friendly, cool letters
which Jerry could read over and over
again without finding in them any
hint of a change in her feelings toward
him. She was living with Aunt Ellen,
it was cold in Chicago, she was
well. . . .

And then she wrote that she was
thinking of going back to work, tak-
ing a nursing post at the Medical
Foundation.

On an impulse of irritation, after
reading this letter, he telephoned
Veronica Farrell at the small apart-
ment she had taken on Washington
Square. Even as he heard her voice
saying "Hello" he knew he should
have let her stay out of his life, but it
brought unexpected comfort when she
urged him to come over right away.
"There's someone here I want you to
meet," she said.

A tall man with a lined face stood
up when Jerry entered Veronica's
living room. His name, as Jerry heard
it in Veronica's introduction, was Jim
Farrell; they were shaking hands be-
fore he realized that this must be
Veronica's former husband.

"We have a surprise," she said in a
voice edged with nervousness. "Jim
and I are trying it again — we were
married yesterday afternoon."

Farrell was smiling, showing even
white teeth under a small, dapper
mustache. He said, a little fuzzily,
"Surprised, Malone? So was I, when
Ronnie said yes. You'd think she'd
learn, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe we've both learned some-
thing," Veronica said quietly. She ac-
cepted Jerry's stammered good wishes

with inscrutable poise; only once,
when she looked straight into his eyes,
he thought she was trying to send him
a wordless message.

Farrell did most of the talking dur-
ing the half-hour Jerry remained. He
had recently returned from some
vague business in South America; now
he intended to remain in the United
States. "Ronnie thinks I need a job,"
he laughed. "Keep me out of mischief.
Got to look around for something in-
teresting, I guess, or Ronnie'll give me
the devil." He put his hand over hers.

On the whole, Jerry found him quite
unpleasant. He made his escape as
soon as he could, sick at heart over
what must have been an act of hope-
lessness and despair on Veronica's
part. Surely she could not have be-
lieved she would be happy with Jim!

She had believed just that, he
learned three evenings later, when he
met her at a restaurant in response
to her urgent telephone call.

"I was insane, I suppose," she said.
Her poise was gone now. Lipstick
showed in a dark smear against the
pallor of her skin, and she was busy
constantly, picking up knives and
forks and putting them back down
upon the table, lighting cigarettes and
crushing them out after one puff, eat-
ting almost nothing.

"I must have been insane, to think
he had changed. But he was so differ-
ent— so sweet and rather pitiful. He'd
had a hard time, I could see that. He
sounded sincere when he said all he
wanted was to marry me again and
buckle down to making something
decent out of his life. And I—" She
faltered, hating to say it. "I thought,
why not? I had to attach myself to
something, someone. It seemed like
a good opportunity to take myself out
of your life."

"Veronica! Why didn't you tell me
first — ask my advice?"

I DON'T know," she said helplessly.
' "I didn't want to. In my heart I
must have known it was insane to
marry him again. And it was! He has
no intention of doing anything but
live on my money for the rest of his
life."

"You must get a divorce," Jerry
told her.

"No. No more divorces. I did this
to myself. I'm going to see it through."
There was fierce determination in the
short, bitter sentences. Then her voice
softened. "It's been good of you, Jerry,
to let me pour out my troubles to you.
I should have kept them to myself, but
I felt tonight that I needed a sympa-
thetic ear to keep from going mad. . . .
Now," she said with one of her light-
ning changes of mood, "let's talk about
something else. Something gay."

They lingered awhile over their
coffee, and by the time they left the
restaurant Veronica seemed happier.
She refused Jerry's offer of a lift
home, and as they waited for a cab
to draw up at the curb she touched
his arm. "Bless you, Jerry," she said.
"You've done me good."

A few minutes later Jerry had just
let himself into his own apartment
when the telephone jangled.

It was Veronica.

"Jerry, Jerry, come quickly. When
I got home I found Jim here — dead.
Somebody's killed him."

A murder has been committed that
will trail its scandal through the lives
of Jerry, Ann, Veronica! Don't miss
the tense conclusion of Young Doctor
Malone in the October Radio Mirror.

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Superman in Radio

(Continued from page 40)

and hauled them back to safety.
Quickly, before they could regain
consciousness, Superman resumed the
guise of Clark Kent. Lois' abductor
groaned as he came to his senses but
Kent wasted no words with him.

"Who's the Leader?"

The man hesitated, then talked
eagerly when he noticed the grim,
threatening look on the reporter's
face. "The Leader is — the Mayor!
Sure, he fooled you!"

"But what about the Pillar of Fire —
why is it being used to frighten
people?"

" 'Cause we found a silver mine un-
der it. By rights it belongs to the
town. We figgered to drive away the
folks and buy up the land for our-
selves. And I had orders to get rid
of you two.

"About that fire — it comes from
natural gas and the Mayor can make
it burn as high as the mountain."

"Where's the Mayor now?"

"He's down in his cavern with the
gas machinery. He's goin' to set the
flame goin' full blast and burn up the
village!"

Kent waited for no more. Quickly
he removed his prisoner's belt and
bound his hands. He used his own
belt to bind the man's feet. Then:
"Miss Lane, here's this fellow's gun.
Don't let him get away. I'm going
down to the cavern. Maybe it's not
too late to stop the Mayor."

IN another second he was out of sight
I and, in a flash, Clark Kent be-
came— Superman! Unscathed, he cut
through the flames. As he reached the
cavern, he saw the fire shoot higher
and higher. Then he heard voices:

"Mayor — watch the pressure gauge.
Those tanks can't take more than 7000
pounds — they'll explode!"

"Don't worry, I'll throw the switch
in time. Now we need all the pressure
we can get to spread the fire!"

But Superman was already in the
cavern: "Take your hand off that
switch!" His steel hands held the two
men tight.

Hysterically, the Mayor screamed:
"Let go of us — if this switch isn't re-
leased we'll all die here!"

But he was too late. Even as he
spoke the compressor needle reached
7000 pounds and then, tremblingly,
started to advance. Superman relaxed
his grip and, frantically, the two men
began to run. But in that second the
cavern walls rocked with a gigantic
explosion. Unheeding, Superman felt
the rocks fall about him.

"So the compressor tank did ex-
plode— caught the Mayor and his
helper in their own trap. But that
explosion wrecked the fire and saved
Gravesend. The only thing I have
to do now is get out of here. Just
have to force a few of these huge
boulders out of the way. By heavens
— they weigh tons — but one good
shove should get this big one clear —
Good — now back to Miss Lane."

In another minute, mild, spectacled
Clark Kent was standing beside his
fellow-reporter. The job was done.
Once again, Superman had conquered
the forces of evil.

Next month, another thrilling epi-
sode in the life oj Superman, the man
who came from another world to help
save innocent lives from being de-
stroyed by maniacs and gangsters.

Safe New Way in Feminine Hygiene
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When historians look back on the
first forty years of this century
they will see two totally different pic-
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One shamefully dark. The other glo-
riously bright.

On the one side they will see war,
Buffering and ignorance. On the other
they will see the dawn of a new age . . .
an age of greater health and happiness
for millions.

A contradiction? Yes, but history is
full of them. During the darkest days
of the Napoleonic Wars the vaccine

for smallpox was made famous. Pasteur
and Lister revolutionized medicine
while armies were marching in Europe.
Some of surgery's greatest advances
were made during the last World War.

Today the world is again torn with
strife. Yet here in America we are tak-
ing our first steps toward that better,
happier life of which humanity has
always dreamed.

No one man is responsible. Hundreds
of "hunger fighters" in hundreds of
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Americans arc going to be the first na-

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People are being educated to eat the
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It's a big job. One of the biggest that
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Every child in America today has in-
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rOOD WILL BUILD A NEW AMERICA

This advertisement is approved by the office of Federal Security Administrator, Paul V.
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RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR as its contribution to national nutrition defense.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

What's New From Coast to Coast

(Continued from page 7)

hand and to his microphone with
the other. The rescue work went on
while Jack, seasick to an unendurable
degree, was willing to pay any price
for just one square foot of solid
ground to put his feet on — if only for
two minutes.

But in spite of his misery, he turned
in a broadoast over CBS that the
whole country talked about, and
which radio and newspaper men will
remember for many years. It brought
him the National Headliners Club
award — plus an offer from CBS to
come to New York and join the net-
work's special events staff.

Strange as it seems, all the excite-
ment and glamor of being at broad-
casting headquarters, of associating
with Elmer Davis and Bob Trout,
paled beside Jack's dislike of the big-
city hustle and bustle. At last he went
to Paul White, the CBS news director,
and said he appreciated all that had
been done for him, but couldn't he
please be transferred to a saner,
quieter place? Somewhere, for in-
stance, like WBT in Charlotte, N. C?

White rubbed a magic lamp, and in
a very short space of time Jack was
whisked to Charlotte and into the
berth of news editor. He's now hap-
pier than he's ever been, with an acre
of ground for his children and vege-
tables to grow on and with the
slower-moving tempo of Southern life
to enjoy. He takes his action and ex-
citement during working hours, and
relaxes when they're over.

Jack was born in Somerville, Mass.
He was a nephew of Neil Burgess,
star of the old play, "County Fair,"
and his ambition almost before he
was out of knee pants was to be an
actor. At the age of fourteen he
played the part of a sixty-five-year-
old man in an amateur play, and from
1925 to 1932 he worked in various
stage productions. In 1932 he joined
CBS as an announcer at WEEI.

Today, as WBT news editor, Jack
has a big audience for his nightly
Views of the News program. A good
deal of his time is taken up with talks
about radio newsgathering in Char-
lotte and neighboring cities, but his
family and his hobbies are his main
interest. Mrs. Knell and three stal-
wart youngsters — Dane, Donald and
Derek — keep their dad busy at com-
petitive badminton, horse-shoe pitch-
ing, tennis and swimming.

Eddie Cantor plans to broadcast
from Hollywood most of next season.
He's forming a company to make his
own movies, and will appear in one
or two himself if he finds the right
stories. Meanwhile, he has a clever
idea for a Broadway musical comedy,
but the show hasn't been written yet.
It's about an obscure little tailor who
is suddenly discovered, by a search of
old records, to own the whole of Man-
hattan Island.

George Burns and Gracie Allen
with Paul Whiteman's band, are all
set to head a new Hollywood variety
program beginning in the Fall.

PITTSBURGH, Pa.— Although he's
one of the most popular radio stars
in Pittsburgh, and a skilful writer

SEPTEMBER", 1941

and producer of programs, station
KQV's John Howard is really just a
friendly, down-to-earth young man.
Really young, too — only twenty-three.

John came to KQV five years ago,
a new high school diploma under his
arm. Since then he's increased a
large following of admirers by an-
nouncing and writing programs in the
romantic, confidential style listeners
enjoy. At present he writes and an-
nounces the Tri-State Follies, a mu-
sical revue sponsored by a local chain
of dry goods stores; the Human Side
of Hollywood, a feature which is part
of an early morning program spon-
sored by the city's largest department
store; and We're in the Army Now, a
program dedicated to America's sol-
diers which is on the air three half-
hours every week.

John was born in Pittsburgh and
educated in the public schools there.
Along about his twelfth birthday he
became interested in radio and began
to plan a career in the business. When
he was sixteen he went on the air for
the first time, singing on a local sta-
tion. A year later he began announc-
ing high school sports on another
station. When he was eighteen, in
August, 1936, John went to work for
KQV as assistant news editor. Four
months later, on December 25, he be-
came an announcer, and still says that
was the best Christmas present he
ever received. He'd always been in-
terested in writing, and it wasn't long
before he was turning out a weekly
half hour show called Night on the
Old Circle-L, a series of stories about
the old west. His most famous writing
effort to date is "The Unknown Sol-
dier Speaks," which he wrote and
produced last Memorial Day. Fifteen
hundred copies of the script have been
mailed to listeners who wrote in and
requested them.

His hobby outside the studio is
horseback riding. He's still a bachelor,
but won't be for very long, his close
friends say. A very beautiful young
actress came into his life a few months
ago, and he hasn't recovered yet.

John Howard, serving on the staff
of KQV, as Program Manager, Pub-
licity director and announcer.

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300 Names For Your Baby

What Shall I Buy Before Baby Gomes?

Time Saving Ways to Do Baby's Laundry

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I T'S "Rainey" day every day at
1 WTIC, Hartford, Conn., and the
listeners love it. Bud Rainey originated
from Florida and got into any and
everything theatrical, until radio came
along. And now, his program, Day
Dreams, is presented over WTIC Mon-
day through Friday at 12:35 P.M.,
E.D.T., and on Sunday at 11:15 A.M.
It's a poetical-philosophical program
of Bud's own design perfectly suited

southern voice and
a low organ back-

to his folksy
presented with
ground.

The increasing popularity of the
poems caused the Travelers' Broad-
casting Service Corporation to publish
them in book form. "Day Dreams"
was the first volume, "Jes' Dreamin',"
the second. We are happy to publish
one of Mr. Rainey's poems here for
Radio Mirror readers.

FORGIVING FATH ER

By "Bud" Rainey

The hardest thing a feller ever has to do, I guess,

Is when he has to discipline his kid,
An' punishin' my Punkin for his childish orneriness,

Is 'bout the toughest job I ever did.
I guess I'm just a softy, when it comes to bein' tough,

An' makin' him toe every little line;
I know I let him get away with heaps an' piles o' stuff,

Because I'm ever mindful, he is mine.

Sometimes when I come home at night, I'll hear his Mommy say:

"You'll simply have to take this boy in hand!"
I'll hear then of the mischief he has done throughout the day,

An' then I'll get all set to reprimand:
I'll tell myself: "I must be firm — this time, I won't give in!"

An' then I'll see a tear well in his eye,
An' then I'm licked — he's captured me before I can begin —

It happens every dog-gone time I try!

About the livest things on earth, 1 guess, are little boys,
An' they can't stand the thoughts o' bein' still;

It seems they're never happy, 'less they're makin' lots o' noise,
It's always been that way — an' always will!

A boy is like an engine with a boiler full o' steam,
An' like a swarm of bees, beneath the crust;

The only time he's still is when he's driftin' in a dream-
He has to let off steam, or else he'd bust!

His Mommy says that I'm an easy mark — perhaps I am,

But I know boys, and just what they enjoy;
She can't see why I weaken when he gets into a jam,

But Mommy, she ain't never been a boy!
I reckon I'm to blame for all his naughty, noisy play,

But he is such a cunnin' little elf,
That I can't quite make up my mind that I should make him pay

For doin' things, I used to do myself.

Sometimes I act as though I never see his roguish tricks,

An' let them pass as though I didn't know;
I don't believe in clampin' down on kids 'tween five an' six,

I guess, perhaps, it's 'cause I love him so.
I wonder if all Fathers feel the same, regardin' this,

Or if alone, I'm guilty of a crime;
But when he says he's sorry, with a big hug an' a kiss,

He's sure of my forgiveness, every time!

FADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

She Scorned the Neighbors Who Loved Her

WHEN city-bred Christine Lawson settled down in Oakdale she
detested the straight-laced traditions, the prying eyes of this
dreary town. Why, she asked, must everyone know what she eats,
how she lives, what she does? Her good-natured neighbors were ready
to accept her, but they were small town folk and she snubbed their
offered friendship. But disaster was inevitably hers . . . and when
death threatened to crush her entire world, how did those neighbors
answer her frenzied call ? What did they say to the woman who
ridiculed their most sacred customs. And how did Christine Lawson
painfully learn that the love of a neighbor is the greatest asset a man
or woman possesses?

Don't miss "LOVE THY NEIGHBOR" a stirring, meaningful,
and true story, combining heart-warming devotion and heartless
bigotry. Read it today in the September TRUE ROMANCES
Magazine, and thrill to the heroic proportions of small-town simplicity !

She made up her mind in advance that she could never learn to like her neigh-
bors in Oakdale.

AIR CORPS SWEETHEART

Here is a story of the courageous women behind
the pilots who man our great air defenses . . .
about the women who are taught to swallow all
tears and defiantly grin over broken bodies, broken
planes . . . and broken hearts. This is the human
side of the air force, a picture we seldom see. And
we see it from the inside, for this is a tale by a
gallant colonel's daughter so madly in love with
the most reckless flyer in the force that she chal-
lenged the very creed she was reared on to keep
him near her! It is truly a great tale of great
people!

Begin this thrilling true story in the September
True Romances Magazine. Read part one of
"AIR CORPS SWEETHEART", the most ab-
sorbing, fiery serial you have ever seen. Remem-
ber, the first installment appears in the new True
Romances Magazine. It's on sale now! Don't
miss it!

Tiiese are just a few of the many absorbing true
sto-ries — exciting, heart-warming, delightful tales
of young love—appearing in the September True
Romances Magazine. Get your copy today!

HONEYMOON FOLLY

It's usually customary for a girl to make up her
mind she loves a man before she marries him.
But once, with her new husband beamingly sitting
beside her, a two-hour-old bride thought of things
far apart from her honeymoon — sat longing for
the arms of another man! And she thought: "How
can I ever answer that yearning look in my hus-
band's eye when I know I don't love him?"

But do not miss the whole throbbing story of
what happened on this strange and awkward
honeymoon. Read "HONEYMOON FOLLY" in
September True Romances Magazine and know
from her own lips how this young bride who
thought she had stumbled into a loveless marriage
learned that the matchless devotion of a good man
can crash the portals of a woman's heart.

nr*ue

Romances

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PENNY SINGLETON

Star of Columbia s "Blondie" pictures, enjoys the song of "Dickie" her pet Canary:

French's Bird Seed
is the Favorite^ to/

CANABIKS for companionship . . .
canaries for cheer . . . canaries for
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and Millet Seeds; Soy Bean Grits,
Yeast, Wheal Germ (B,), Corn Syrup,
Cultlebone and Charcoal. In every
package of French's Bird Seed is French's
Bird Biscuit (in itself worth 10c). It
gives the diet an extra //// and combines
with French's Bird Seed to supply your
Canary an 1 1 -course balanced meal —
all in one package!

, ' M

THIS BEAUTIFUL FULL COLOR PRINT
FROM PENNY SINGLETON'S PHOTOGRAPH

An actual reproduction of the lovely L>-color specially -posed photograph hIiowh at
the !■ I' in autographed picture thul Ponnj Singleton "fans" everywhere will he
proud i" own. Size ft" \ I"". Suitable for framing, No advertising printed on it.
V -Mir fur the asking I Simply paste coupon on pennj postcard and mail with voiu
name and address or, write a letter. Hurry! Write today! You'll be thrilled!

LARGEST-SELLING
BIRD SEED IN THE U. S.

MAIL THIS COUPON TODAY!
The It. T. FHENCH CO., 244S Mustard Si.. Rochester, N. Y.
Send me FREE color prim from Pennj Singleton's photograph.

NAME, _ ,

ADDRESS.
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(Paste on p.-iinv postcard and mail)

CZ^/s«u vr uotc tow&tCt &&u/Ctb j^saMtu^.
YOU'LL WIN HEARTS .. if your Smile is Right!

Your smile is a priceless asset.
Help to keep it bright and spark-
ling with Ipana and Massage.

Every attractive woman isn't really
pretty. Every movie darling isn't a
classic beauty. But take to your heart this
true observation— you can seldom find
fault with their smiles.

So take hope, plain girl, take hope!
Even if you weren't born to great beauty
—you can have compliments, 'phone calls
and dates. Make your smile the real,
lovely YOU. And remember, healthy gums

are important to a bright, sparkling, at-
tractive smile.

If you've seen a touch of "pink" on
your tooth brush— do the right thing to-
day. See your dentist! His verdict may be
that your gums have become sensitive
because today's soft foods have robbed
them of work But don't take chances-
let him make the decision. And if, like
thousands of others, your dentist sug-
gests Ipana and massage— take his ad-
vice and get Ipana at once.

For Ipana Tooth Paste not only cleans
and brightens your teeth but, with mas-

sage, it is specially designed to help the
health of your gums as well.

Try Ipana and Massage

Massage a little extra Ipana onto your
gums every time you clean your teeth.
That invigorating "tang" means circula-
tion is quickening in the gum tissue-
helping your gums to new firmness.

Get a tube of economical Ipana Tooth
Paste at your druggist's today. Let Ipana
and massage help keep your teeth
brighter, your gums firmer, your smile
more sparkling.

A LOVELY SMILE IS MOST IMPORTANT TO BEAUTY!"

say beauty editors of 23 out of 24 leading magazines

Recently a poll was made among the beauty editors of 24
leading magazines. All but one of these experts said that a
woman has no greater charm than a lovely, sparkling smile.
They went on to say that "Even a plain girl can be charm-
ing, if she has a lovely smile. But without one, the loveliest
woman's beauty is dimmed and darkened."

IPANA

TOOTH PASTE

A Product of Bristol-Myers Company

OCTOBER, 1941

What baby
powder is
smoothest?

These photographs show how
3 leading baby powders look
under the microscope. Note the
superiority of Mennen (at bot-
tom). It is smoother, more uni-
form in texture, because it is
made by an exclusive Mennen
process, "hammerizing."

Being smoother, Mennen
gives better protection against
chafing. Being definitely anti-
septic, it helps protect baby's
skin against germs. And you'll
like its new, delicate fragrance.

BORATED POWDER
(Antiseptic)

OCTOBER, 1941

"I Paid HITLER'S Way to

POWER!"

Fritz Thys-
sen, who as
Germany's
greatest industrialist poured millions
into the Nazi regime, almost single-
handedly financed Hitler's maniacal
scheme to bring chaos to the modern
world. Although Thyssen has mys-
teriously vanished, he has given the
world a priceless document — his his-
toric memoirs, and secret papers about
Nazism as only he knew it!

And Liberty is now publishing this
extraordinary expose for the first time
in the world. Read this history-making
news — the unblanched truth about
Hitler— in Liberty today.

Get the Latest Issue Today

Liberty 5/

VOL. 16, No. 6

ERNEST V. HEYN
Executive Editor

HIIDItLEVttiOn

M/RROR

BELLE LANDESMAN
ASSISTANT EDITOR

FRED R. SAMMIS
Editor

CONTENTS

Beauty While You Work Selena Royle 8

A charming star tells how you can discover loveliness at home
"Love Story" Margaret E. Songster 10

First of a series of exciting radio romances by a famous writer
Amanda of Honeymoon Hill 12

Begin radio's beautiful love story of two worlds
Who Is Claudia? Adele Whitely Fletcher 17

She's Pat Ryan, delightful new radio heroine
The Difference Love Makes 18

A true drama of lives behind the mike
Pepper Young's Family 22

Now complete your album of portraits of the family from Elmwood
Let Me Forget Norton Russell 26

The story of a girl who denied herself love's rapture
I Dream of a Waltz in "Paree" 30

Words and music of a beautiful tune featured by Frank Parker
Young Doctor Malone 32

Through another's tragedy, Ann and Jerry now find understanding
Baby! Arch Oboler 34

How could she ever tell Bill the doctor's news?
Against the Storm 36

Special Living Portraits of one of radio's most appealing couples
The Cooking Corner Suggests —

Thrift Menus with Meat Kate Smith 38

Superman in Radio 40

Adventure in the Caribbean
Rooking the Radio Buyer Frank W. Brock and James W. Holden 50

Beware before you buy that new set!

What Do You Want to Say? 3

Facing the Music Ken Alden 4

What's New from Coast to Coast Dan Senseney 6

Frank Parker Gallery 29

Inside Radio — The Radio Mirror Almanac 41

Fresh as a Daisy .... Dr. Grace Gregory 82

ON THE COVER— Pat Ryan, star of Claudia and David,
heard on CBS Friday evenings

Kodachrome by Charles P. Seawood

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR, published monthly by MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS. INC.,
Washington and South Avenues, Dunellen, New Jersey. General Offices: 205 East 42nd Street, New
York, N. Y. Editorial and advertising offices : 322 East 42nd Street, New York. O. J. Elder, President;
llaydock Miller Secretary; Chas. H. Shattuck, Treasurer; Walter Hanlon, Advertising Manager.
Chicago office, 221 North LaSalle St. E. F. Lethen. Jr., Mgr. Pacific Coast Office: San Francisco,
120 Market .Street, Lee Andrews, Manager. Entered as second-class matter September 14, 1933, at
the Post Office at Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Price per copy in United States
and Canada, 10c. Subscription price in United States and Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland, $1.00
a year. In Cuba, Mexico, Haiti, Dominican Republic, Spain and Possessions, and Central and South
American countries, excepting British Honduras, British, Dutch and French Guiana, $1.50 a year; all
other countries, $2.50 a year. While Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings are submitted at the
owner's risk, every effort will be made to return those found unavailable if accompanied by sufficient
llrsl -class postage, and explicit name and address. Contributors are especially advised to be sure to
retain copies of their contributions; otherwise they are taking unnecessary risk. Unaccepted letters
for the "What Do You Want to Say?" department will not be returned, and we will not be responsible
lor any losses of such matter contributed. All submissions become the property of the magazine.
(Member of Macfadden Women's Group.) The contents of this magazine may not be printed, either
wholly or in part, without permission.

Title trademark registered In U. S. Patent Office.

Printed In the U. S. A. by Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

THE LAST STRAW!

YE Gads! Today was the last straw!
I have listened to Mary Marlin for
years now and I have thoroughly en-
joyed the story, but as I have said
before, today was the last straw.

Never Fail Hendricks has been
looking for Joe Marlin and it seems
that Joe walks into a room that
Hendricks has just left or vice versa.
They are always just missing each
other. I admit a story has to have
suspense but when the same situa-
tion happens five or six times, it's just
plain nerve racking. I think if it
happens just once more I will go nuts
and I know I will have plenty of
company, because I'm not the only
one who feels that way. So please —
please tell the author we have had
enough of that one situation! — Mrs.
Shirley Levine, Los Angeles, Cal.

IT WAS WORTH THE BOTHER

I was mad as hops when I learned
of the reallocation of radio stations,
for like most lazy Americans, I
dreaded the bother of learning the
dial all over again. However, it was
worth the trouble, for I've been
amazed at the difference in the clar-
ity with which the stations are
coming in.

Radio waves are still a mystery to
me; frequencies and kilocycles are
just so much Greek, but I'd like to
thank whatever genius made this
new clearness of reception possible.
— Maxine Baxter, Norwood, Ohio.

WE'RE BEING CHEATED!

I don't know how the rest of the
listening audience feels about it, but
I, for one, strenuously object to the
type of quiz program where the con-
testant has to act out a sketch, either
as a punishment for not answering
his quiz correctly or just as an added
attraction.

We, listening beside our loud
speakers, can't help feeling cheated
when we hear the hilarious laughter
of the audience at the antics and
dress-up of the contestant.

The master of ceremonies tries to
describe what is going on, but the
millions who aren't privileged to
witness the comical proceedings, cer-
tainly can't appreciate fully what is
taking place on the stage.

Perhaps I am being selfish, but
since the majority of listeners are in
the homes of the country, I feel some
consideration should be made for us.

Mrs. R. E. Schaefer, Sayreville, N. J.

Two office bachelors
—but no date for Joan!

Popularity and Jobs are Safer
if a girl remembers to use Mum every day!

TWO attractive bachelors— both marked
for success. And they picked Joan
for a honey the very first morning on her
new job. But why no bantering— no bids
to lunch— none of the attend on the other
girls received? Well, Joan, the truth, the
tragic truth, is— the girl guilty of under-
arm odor doesn't get or deserve the breaks.

Joan would be amazed if you men-
tioned her fault— if you deliberately said
"Mum." She bathes every morning, of
course. But she needs Mum to protect
that after-bath freshness, to keep her safe
all day— or all evening long.

Many smart girls — eager to get ahead

in business or socially — make Mum a
daily habit. They wouldn't dream of tak-
ing chances with charm when Mum is so
quick, so safe, so easy to use!

MUM IS QUICK I A touch under each
arm, before or after dressing ... in 30
seconds charm is protected.

MUM IS GENTLE! Use it right after un-
derarm shaving. So safe for fine fabrics
that it has won the seal of approval of
the American Institute of Laundering.

MUM IS SURE! Mum makes odor im-
possible all day or all evening, yet does
not stop perspiration. Get Mum today!

/'*l'f»SC0»t'*'

For Sanitary Napkins

Mum is so gentle, so safe that
thousands of women prefer it
for this important purpose.
Use Mum this way, too.

A Product of Bristot-Myirs Company

Mum

TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION

OCTOBEH. 1941

Radio Mirror's featured band-
leader of the month is Charlie
Spivalc. Left, Charlie's mother,
his wife, and young son, Joel,
visit him backstage at his New
York Strand theatre engagement.
Below, the Spivak outfit on the
bandstand of Glen Island's Casino.

FACING

the

MUSIC

ONE of the Fall season's big league
radio shows will ride over Mutual
Friday nights, beginning September
19. It marks the first top sponsored
musical for the youngest of the net-
works. Milton Berle has been defi-
nitely set and the comic might have
Charles Laughton and Shirley Ross
as running mates. The band spot is
wide open.

* * »

Mel Marvin, whose "Take It Easy"
music is heard over MBS, will shortly
wed Esther Silsbee, Vincent Lopez's
Girl Friday. Marvin, a 28-year-old
midwesterner, has an eleven-piece
sweet band that closely resembles
Guy Lombardo's style.

* * *

Tragedy came to the King of Jazz
when his three-year-old son, Dick,
died last month. Whiteman made a
vain effort to reach* the child's bed-
side, flying to Jersey from Chicago.
Paul's wife, the former silent screen
star, Margaret Livingston, brought
the boy to a Trenton hospital from
the Whiteman estate in nearby Stock-
ton. Dick had suffered from nephrosis.
The Whitemans have a ten-year-old
daughter, Margo.

* • *

Marion Hutton, Glenn Miller's for-
mer vocalist, became the mother of a
baby boy. The daddy is Jack Philbin,
Johnny Long's manager.

KEN ALDEN

As predicted in this column, the
romance between Johnny Long and
radio actress Patricia Waters is
quickly reaching the altar stage.

Glenn Miller's 55-acre ranch, re-
cently purchased in California, is
called "Tuxedo Junction," named for
the trombonist's biggest recording hit.
The ranch produces 12,000 cases of
oranges a year. Incidentally, Glenn
has been renewed on the Chesterfield
show for thirteen more weeks.

This Changing World

Mildred Law, lovely young tap
dancer seen in the musical show, "Pal
Joey," has forsaken her dancing shoes
for vocal chores with Vaughn Mon-
roe's orchestra. Marilyn Duke is
Monroe's other canary. . . . Harry
James hired Dell Parker, a virtually
unknown girl vocalist. . . . Wayne
King goes back to Chicago's Edge-
water Beach Hotel October 2. . . .
Gail Robbins is Art Jarrett's new
singer. . . . Dinah Shore has been
screen tested by MGM and the results
are promising. . . . John Scott Trot-
ter is reported asking for a 13-week
leave of absence from the Kraft
Music Hall so that he can take his
band on a road tour. . . . Monte
(Continued on page 80)

Pretty Mildred Law was a tap
dancer in the Broadway musical,
"Pal Joey," but she prefers to
sing with Vaughn Monroe's band.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

it's annoying when folks just drop in . . . JDUI

infectious dandruff

is more annoying still I

MEN: Douse full strength Listerine
Antiseptic on the scalp morning and
night. WOMEN: Part the hair at
various places, and apply Listerine
Antiseptic right along the part with
a medicine dropper, to avoid wetting
the hair excessively.

Always follow with vigorous and
persistent massage with fingers or
a good hairbrush. Continue the
treatment so long as dandruff is in
evidence. And even though you're
free from dandruff, enjoy a Lister-
ine Antiseptic massage once a week
to guard against infection. Listerine
is the same antiseptic that has
been famous for more than 50
years as a mouth wash and gargle.

Get after it with LISTERINE
at the first sign of trouble

WHAT makes the infectious type of dandruff
so annoying, so distressing, are those trou-
blesome flakes on collar or dress . . . and the
scalp irritation and itching . . . that so often
accompany the condition.

If you're troubled in this way, look out —
you may have this common form of dandruff,
so act now before it gets worse.

Has Helped Thousands

Start right in with Listerine Antiseptic and
massage. This is the medical treatment that
has shown such amazing results in a substantial
majority of clinical test cases . . . the treatment
that has also helped thousands of other people.

You, too, may find it as helpful as it is delight-
ful. Listerine is so easy, so simple to use, and
so stimulating ! You simply douse it on the scalp
morning and night and follow with vigorous
and persistent massage.

Thousands of users have marvelled at how
flakes and scales begin to disappear, how much
cleaner and healthier their scalps appear. And
remember:

Kills "Bottle Bacillus"

Listerine Antiseptic kills millions of germs
on scalp and hair, including Pityrosporum
ovale, the strange "Bottle Bacillus" recognized
by many outstanding dandruff specialists as a
causative agent of infectious dandruff.

This germ-killing action, we believe, helps to
explain why, in a series of tests, 76% of dandruff
sufferers showed either complete disappearance
of or marked improvement in the symptoms of
dandruff within a month.

Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo.

the delightful treatment

OCTOBER. 1941

WHAT'S NEW

from
COAST to COAST

RADIO people have been busy ad-
ding to the population of the
world this summer. Dorothy Kil-
gallen and her actor-husband, Rich-
ard Kollmer (David of Claudia and
David) , have a new son they've named
Richard Tompkins Kollmer. Jeanette
Nolan took time off from her many
acting chores to have a baby girl, while
hubby John Mclntyre kept right on
speaking lines— maybe a bit nervously
into the microphone. The Theodore
Graniks (he's Mutual's American
Forum of the Air man) are expecting
a baby soon at their home in Wash-
ington. So is Dorothy Lowell, star of
Our Gal Sunday. Likewise Virginia
Verrill, of the College Humor variety

how. And Richard Stark, announcer
for the Hour of Charm, Life Can be
Beautiful and other programs, will be

I tathcr in September. His wife is the
former Carolin Babcock, national
• loubles champion.

Then of course there's Benay Venu-

ta, who leturned to the air only five

Its after the birth of her baby girl.

Besides her regular weekly stint as

of fhe "pitchers" on Quizzer Base-

• iil. Eddie Cantor's summer replace-

ii, she's been singing as a guest

star on different programs. She's lost
some weight and looks stunning.
» * *

By the time you read this, the Aid-
rich Family will be back on the air
and everyone will know whether or
not Ezra Stone will be able to con-
tinue in the role he created and made
so vastly popular. Ezra was drafted
in July, and moved out to Camp Upton
in New Jersey. He could probably
have been deferred, considering the
number of people who depend on the
radio show of which he's the main
support for their living, but he wanted
to do his duty and don a uniform. As
this is written, it looks as though a
compromise will be worked out which
will let Ezra leave the camp once a
week and come to New York for his
broadcasts. This would be less of a
special dispensation than it sounds,
because Ezra will be more valuable
to the Army than an ordinary selectee

his long experience in both acting
and directing make him a big help
in camp recreational activities.
* • +

Charlotte, N. C. — Heard on this,

By DAN SENSENEY

The bride and groom toast each
other — Alice Frost, radio's Big
Sister, and her new husband, who
used to direct her program, Will-
son Tuttle. Left, WBT's organist
and pianist is Clarence Etters.

that and the other WBT program,
Clarence Etters is WBT's staff or-
ganist— and at least one of the sta-
tion's star romantic attractions. As
the station wag once remarked, "I can
always tell who is on the air in Studio
A when I see the seats there packed
with beautiful girls."

Of course, Clarence is a good mu-
sician as well as a handsome young
gentleman. Inspired by the melodies
of Ann Leaf, Jesse Crawford and
Lew White, he began studying the
organ and piano when he was a boy.
Now he can play them both at the
same time — the organ with his left
hand and the piano with his right —
synchronizing them into some very
fancy music. Long hours of practice
have given him a repertoire running
from hillbilly tunes to hymns, from
swing to the classics, and this enables
him to appear on all types of WBT
programs, making him one of the
busiest stars at the station.

It was lucky for Clarence and his
musical ambitions that he had an in-
dulgent father. He stepped right into
the grocery business when he gradu-
ated from Wingate College, for his
father gave him a grocery store as
a graduation present. It took only
a few years of trying to keep custom-
ers from knocking over the floor dis-
plays of canned peas to send Clarence
to the music which he's really pre-
ferred all along. The grocery store
was disposed of, with the elder Etters'
blessing.

Six years ago Clarence came to

WBT as accompanist, and since then

has had several programs of his own,

besides being in demand on other

(Continued on page 48)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

You hear a lot today about a short-
age of aluminum.

You hear of bottlenecks in the de-
fense industry . . . of a scarcity of
planes and tanks.

But one of the greatest deficiencies
in our national defense is a white
crystalline powder — a tasteless, odor-
less, colorless food ingredient that is
as vital to our national strength as
battleships or TNT.

This ingredient is Vitamin Bh

• • m

WITHOUT vitamin B, , human mus-
cles tire easily, the brain does not
think well, appetite tails, we become
moody, sluggish, even lose courage.

The strength of the nation lies in its
man power, and the power of men, we
have come to know, depends to a great
extent upon Vitamin Bj. A national de-
ficiency in this essentfal, therefore,
means a serious shortage in national
energy — and we have had a national
deficiency!

American bakers now have ways to
supply Vitamin B, and other members
ot the B-complex "family" plus food
iron in "Enriched Bread."

You will find "Hunched Bread" so
Libeled regardless of who the baker is
who bakes it. This is the signal to you
that this white bread has been given cer-
tain qualities of the whole-wheat grain
heretofore lost.

This "Enriched Bread" looks and
tastes exactly like ordinary white bread,
yet it adds to your diet precious food
elements that everyone must have.

THE MAGIC FOODS

"Man Joes not live by broad alone."' But it
takes only a few kinds ot simple foods to
provide a sound foundation tor buoyant
health. Hat each of them daily. Then add any-
thing else you like — which agrees with you
— to vour table.

MILK — especially tor V'iiamin A, some
oi the B vitamins, protein and calcium.
"Irradiated" milk — for Vitamin D —
the "sunshine" vitamin.

EGGS, lean meat and sea
food — for proteins and sev-
eral of the B-complex vita-
mins; eggs and lean meat
also for iron.

WHERE YOU SEE "Enriched Bread"
displayed, where you see "Enriched
Bread" advertised in counter and
window signs, those bakers and
grocers are contributing to our
national strength.

GREEN AND YELLOW vege-
tables— for Vitamin ( , Vita-
min A and minerals.

FRUITS and fruit juices — for Vita-
mint!, other vitamins and minerals.

This advertisement is approved bv the
Bureau ot Home Economics of the United
States Dept. of Agriculture. It is brought to
vou as our contribution i<> Nation"' M"'"-
tional Defense by Radio and Television
Mirror

BREAD, whole grain or en-
riched, tor Vitamin B and
other nutrients.

Enough ot these foods in vour daily diet .a\A
in the diets ot all Americans will assure more
abundant health tor the nation, will increase
its energies to meet today's emergencies.

food m// fto//</a /V&Vdmerica,

OCTOBER. 1941

By SELENA ROYLE

Famous star of the dramatic
CBS serial, Woman of Courage,
heard every weekday morning.

Even if you are a busy housewife, there's no need
to look unattractive and tired out when the family
sees you at dinner! A charming star tells how you
can discover new loveliness right in your own home

IT'S easy enough for you," some of
my friends have said to me. "You
don't have a home to keep up, or
any housework to do. You can spend
a whole morning in a beauty shop
once a week, having a facial and a
manicure and a shampoo and a dozen
other beauty treatments. But a house-
wife never has time for that sort of
thing. Or the money either. She has
other things to do besides keeping
herself looking nice. But it's your
business!"

Looking nice is every woman's busi-
ness!

It isn't difficult to stay attractive,
even though yours may be the task of
running a household on a twelve-
hour-a-day basis. I go to beauty shops
because I don't have time not to —

radio rehearsals and broadcasts keep
me away from home most of every
day and I have to squeeze in my
beauty treatments when and where I
can. It is the woman who can stay
home during the day who can arrange
for herself a beauty routine that will
yield real results.

While you do your work, you can
also renew and restore your loveli-
ness. The hours you spend cooking,
cleaning, sewing and washing can also
be the hours in which you remake
your complexion, beautify your hands,
renew the lustre of your hair, restore
your whole beauty energy. It's easier
than you think!

By proper timing and planning a
schedule in advance you can give
yourself a beauty routine that will

prevent any neglect of your loveli-
ness.

You begin as soon as you are up in
the morning. As you dress hurriedly
before getting breakfast for the fam-
ily, smooth a small amount of cleans-
ing cream over your face. When you
wipe this off, you will help remove
traces of fatigue and whatever night
cream may be left. In the bathroom,
soak a wash cloth in hot water and
steam your face to reduce the puffi-
ness of sleep. Follow with the coldest
water that will come from the tap, a
light powdering and a touch of lip-
stick. Then wrap a scarf or a bright
print kerchief around your hair, so
you won't have to take time removing
the bobby pins or worry about the
loose ends that have lost their wave.

Don a bright kerchief — look
fresh and gay at breakfast.

A piece of adhesive between
the eyes stops your frowning.

At dinner — you've had a busy
day, but you look beautiful!

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

As you sit down for breakfast, with
your fresh make-up and your hair
hidden beneath a gay wrapping, the
family will be glad the lady of the
house is so fresh and gay-looking.

After breakfast, your private life
really begins and left by yourself, you
can start part two of your beauty
routine. Needless to say, you will
always, after you've done the dishes,
use a rich cream or lotion on your
hands to prevent any possible dryness
from the water. Another hand hint,
for gardening in the summer is, in
addition to wearing work gloves, to
first dig your nails in soap. No dirt
will then work into the cuticle or
under the nails and the nails will not
split or break.

Should preparing the breakfast have
left any stains on your hands, try a
bleach of buttermilk with lemon juice,
or, if you are rushed for time, rub
away the darker spots with half a
lemon. Be sure to rub in cream to
counteract the drying effect of the
bleach.

LATER in the day if you have a few
' minutes to sit and read or rest, put
on some oiled cotton gloves. You can
buy them specially made, or make
them yourself by dipping a pair of
twenty-cent cotton gloves into some
olive oil. Occasionally, just before din-
ner, massage your hands with a touch
of lemon lotion and powder them the
way you do your face. Smooth hands
lend beauty to any woman, and if you
treat your hands like precious things,
your husband will too.

Your eyes also need daily attention.
After breakfast, smooth a little cream
around them and on the lids, leaving
it on all morning. If your lashes are
dry or brittle, add a light layer of
cream on them.

If you tend to frown deeply when
doing close work like sewing or darn-
ing, try a plaster of adhesive cut in
the shape of a diamond between your
eyes. To rest them, after sewing, try
bathing them in some soothing eye
lotion. In warm weather, change oc-
casionally to iced tea packs for a few
minutes while you are lying down.

To keep your hair free of dust while
you work during the morning, leave
the scarf on that you donned before
breakfast.

For a special evening hair effect,
try a light brilliantine gloss just be-
fore dinner. Two ounces of mineral
oil with a dash of perfume will do the
trick neatly. Just pat on the oil, wipe
off the surplus, and you'll have a
glistening hair-do.

When the housework is finally done,
the rugs swept, the floor and furniture
dusted, the beds made and the shop-
ping over with, there's only one way
to feel and look refreshed. Take a
tingling shower or relaxing bath. If
it's a shower, next time use a cotton
mitten filled with soap flakes and per-
fumed oatmeal in a half and half
mixture. Use your regular soap flakes
and the oatmeal you have on your
shelf, add a dash of your favorite per-
fume. The glove will suds up in a
second and it works wonders if you
have a dry skin. If you prefer, you
can make little soap pads of the same
mixture by dividing an old bath towel
into squares that fit neatly in the palm
of your hand. Each will be good for
several latherings and you'll have a
whole supply in advance.

Personally, I feel that nothing really
takes the place of the daily bath.
Showers are quick fresheners, but a
(Continued on page 78)

OCTOBER. 1941

when skin looks like "peaches and cream

If soap irritation

mars your complexion,

try gentle/ agreeable

Cashmere Bouquet Soap

You're never too old or too young to
love owning a skin like "peacnes
and cream". And if you're the one
woman in two who says some soap or
other irritates her skin, perhaps you'll
find Cashmere Bouquet Soap mild and
agreeable to a sensitive complexion.

So use this Cashmere Bouquet
Health Facial, daily.

First: Cream your skin with the
generous lather of Cashmere Bouquet.
Work it well around the large-pore
area of nose and chin.

Next: Rinse with warm water; then,
a dash of cold. Pat your face dry, don't
rub, and see how gloriously clean and
radiant your complexion is.

An ideal bath soap, too, because
Cashmere Bouquet Soap is scented
with the fragrance men love.

Buy it today at 3 cakes for 25c.

WITH THE FRAGRANCE MEN LOVE

Illustration by
Marshall Frantz

Ellen laid her hand on his
arm. "Don't you dare say a
thing like that," she said.

THE AUTHOR

First of four vivid and exciting radio romances by a famous woman writer —
the story of Gerald and Dorothy, whom he loved though she was as selfish as she
was exquisite, and Ellen who had love and happiness to offer instead of beauty!

GERALD GATESON said, "You
sent for me, Joe, and as I
came through the outer of-
fice your secretary muttered some-
thing about a rush job. What's up?"

Joe Mallaby peered at Gerald.
His eyes were round and owlish
through shell-rimmed glasses.

"Radio's always a rush job,
Gerry," he said, "and this special — "
he broke, off. "What's the matter
with you, boy?" he asked. "You
look seedy as all get out!"

"There's nothing the matter with
me," Gerald said. His hand, grop-
ing into the pocket of his tweed
coat, came in contact with a small
square box, and gripped it hard.
"I'm fit as a fiddle. What is this
rush job, anyway?"

Joe chuckled. "It's right down
your street," he said, "it's a love
story. We've hooked a new client,
Gerry — and I want to show him
what's what. That's why I sent
for you."

A love story . . . Right down his
street . . . Gerald Gateson swal-
lowed hard.

"But I was thinking," he said
a trifle lamely, "of going away.
Somewhere south, perhaps — "

"At this season?" sneered Joe.
"Be your age, Gerry. Nobody goes
south yet."

"Maybe I'm a nobody," Gerald
said. "Joe, maybe you've got some-
thing there." (His heart cried,
"Dorothy! Dotsy! How could you?")

Joe spoke. His voice seemed to
echo from a vast distance.

"You're such a nobody that I've
been moving heaven and earth to
reach you since early yesterday
morning. Where've you been?"

Gerald wanted to shout at the top
of his lungs. "I've been walking
the streets — that's what! All yes-

terday and all last night." Instead
he murmured —

"I've been going places and do-
ing things."

"You're just the type," growled
Joe. All at once he leaned forward
and pounded on his desk with an
energetic fist.

"It's got to be terrific, Gerry," he
shouted, in his best agency manner.
"It's got to be colossal. Only a one
time shot, but if it goes across it
means a handsome contract . . .
It's got to be the best script ever
written. You won't lose by it, boy,
if you do a good job."

Gerald felt suddenly as if he
couldn't stand so much noise. His
head was splitting, and so was his
heart.

"Pipe down, Joe," he said wear-
ily. "Turn off the fireworks, for the
love of heaven. You're not selling
something — you're buying some-
thing. Tell me quietly about this
love story."

Joe piped down. "I'm so used to
putting on the gas," he apologized,
"that I do it automatically. Listen,
Gerry — get a load of this. The
Kerfew crowd are talking radio, at
last. I want to sell them a big
weekly dramatic show, with a slick
cast — and I want a year's guarantee
as a starter. Unfortunately old Ker-
few insists on a test — and what a
test! I've got to produce a bang-up
play, have it written, get a real
star — oh, the whole works! If it
goes across, the sky's the limit, but
— well, one show to decide a fifty-
two weeks program isn't fair,
Gerry."

"Of course, it isn't," agreed Ger-
ald absently. His mind was saying,
over and over, "Nothing's fair.
Nothing in all the world. Nothing
in life."

Joe went on. "If the show falls
flat — and it darn right may — all the
effort has gone for nothing. The
campaign I've planned, the security
of a dozen actors and actresses,
your chance to make a pot of
money, and — Gerry, what the devil
is biting you?"

Taking a firm grip on his vocal
chords, so that his voice was en-
tirely steady, Gerald Gateson asked:

"What's biting who?"

"You haven't been listening to
me," Joe told him accusingly. "You
haven't caught a single word. I
might as well be using my wind to
blow soap bubbles!"

"Sorry," said Gerald, "but I'm so
used to your tirades, Joe." He
cleared his throat. "To put the mat-
ter in a nutshell, you want a tense,
gripping romance that'll burn the
ears off a new sponsor. How long
is this first show to run?"

"Thirty minutes," Joe told him
a trifle sulkily, "half an hour to
you."

"That's long enough," mused
Gerald. "How many characters am
I allowed?"

Joe considered. "Let's see. There'll
be a star, and a leading lady, and
a character man or woman, and a
couple of extras . . . Can you hold
it down to six, Gerry?"

"I can hold it down to six — or
two, if you insist," Gerald grinned
painfully. ("Two's a company,
three's a crowd," echoed through
the empty places of his soul.) "When
do you want the finished script?"

"Well," said Joe — and, to do him
justice, he spoke sheepishly — "if I
could get it by noon tomorrow, we
could cast the bloomin' thing to-
morrow night."

Gerald stared at the inquisitor
who sat on (Continued on page 54)

**1 •**

en.*-

"Hullo, Sylvia," Edward exclaimed,
without looking up. "So this is
the reason you couldn't come over
to Big House," Sylvia said coldly.

THE flames from the brick kiln
swept out, caught by a gust of
wind, and Amanda stepped
swiftly away on bare feet, shielding
her face. The warmth here in this
cleared space in the lee of the hill
was oppressive as the sun rose high
in the clear June sky. Leaning
against the trunk of a great pine
at the edge of the woods, she pushed
the moist curls of red gold hair
from her forehead.

From where she stood, she could
see the valley on one side, and on
the other the high mountains to

the west. Far away, where the trees
were less dense, there was the glitter
of sun on a white house. Day after
day she had looked toward it in
wonder, With a vague, unformulated
hope that life might be different
there than it was in the Valley, dif-
ferent from anything she had ever
known. But she had never climbed
that high road. She had been told
that the people of the Valley hated
and distrusted the outlanders on
the hills.

Amanda sighed, the blue of her
eyes deepening with the question

she had so often asked herself: why,
with this beautiful, green world
around her, with the songs of birds
waking her before dawn, and the
stars brighter than lamps in the
night sky, should there be hate? Her
hands clenched hard. She knew too
intimately what hate was like, not
just the kind her father, Joseph
Dyke, felt for the rich families on
the hill. She herself hated things
that happened — the Valley girls,
fresh and pretty, forced to marry so
young, made to work from morning
till night, bearing children year

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Begin radio's most beautiful
romance — the story of love-
ly Amanda, who fled in terror
from the sordid life of the
valley people into the arms
of Edward who lived in the
shining house on the hilltop

Now as a vivid, romantic story read
the exciting radio serial heard every
weekday at 3:75 P.M.. E.D.T., on NBC's
Blue network, sponsored by Cal- Aspirin
and Haley's M-O. Photographs posed by
Joy Hathaway as Amanda, Boyd Craw-
ford as Edward, Helen Shields as Sylvia.

after year until they were so weary
they were almost glad to die. Some-
where— perhaps in that white house
to which she lifted her eyes — life
was not so cruel. And she hated
Charlie Harris because her father
had promised her in marriage to
him. Her heart beat with a dull
longing for a beauty never yet seen,
a gentleness and kindness never yet
experienced.

"If," she thought, "I'd been to
school, if I could read in books,
maybe, I'd know what I yearn
for—"

The sun was high in the sky, and
Amanda's eyes gauged its position
as the only clock she could read. It
was noon, and her father must be
waiting in the cabin for her to cook
their mid-day meal.

"Yams, turnips — I dug them this
morn. I ought to have been home
before this. Pa'll say I've been loaf-
ing."

Hurriedly she stoked the fire and
shut the door and was off, running
lightly through the woods. And, as
she ran, she laughed; she could not
be unhappy with the green glory

of the world around her, filled with
the scent of the sun on pine needles,
and holding in her heart the knowl-
edge that as long as she had not
made her bridal quilt she could not,
according to Valley custom, be mar-
ried.

To her relief the cabin was empty.
Swiftly, she raked out the ashes on
the hearth, swung the kettles over
them, and tossed in the yams and
turnips. She glanced up to see her
father in the doorway, and all the
wonder of the day fled; her dreams
had no power against the expression

OCTOBER, 1941

m*Lm

"Hullo, Sylvia," Edward exclaimed,
without looking up. "So this is
■the reason you couldn't come over
to Big House," Sylvia said coldly..

Now as a vivid, romantic story read"
the exciting radio serial heard every
weekday at 3:15 P.M., E.D.T., on NBC's
Blue network, sponsored by Cal-/tspirln
and Haley's M-O. Photographs posed by
Joy Hathaway as Amanda, Boyd Craw-
ford as Edward, Helen Shields a* Sylvia.

mffMSML

OF HONEYMOON HILL

From where she stood, she could
see the valley on one side, and on
the other the high mountains to

the west. Far away, where the trees
were less dense, there was the glitter
of sun on a white house. Day after
day she had looked toward it in
wonder, with a vague, unformulated
hope that life might be different
there than it was in the Valley, dif-
ferent from anything she had ever
known. But she had never climbed
that high road. She had been told
that the people of the Valley hated
and distrusted the outlanders on
the hills.

Amanda sighed, the blue of her
eyes deepening with the question

she had so often asked herself: why,
with this beautiful, green world
around her, with the songs of birds
waking her before dawn, and the
stars brighter than lamps in the
night sky, should there be hate? Her
hands clenched hard. She knew too
intimately what hate was like, not
just the kind her father, Joseph
Dyke, felt for the rich families on
the hill. She herself hated things
that happened— the Valley gi«s,
fresh and pretty, forced to marry so
young, made to work from morning
till night, bearing children year

RADIO AND TELEVISION MJW>°»

after year until they were so weary
they were almost glad to die. Some-
where—perhaps in that white house
'o which she lifted her eyes— life
was not so cruel. And she hated
J-harhe Harris because her father
"ad promised her in marriage to
mm. Her heart beat with a dull

°nging for a beauty never yet seen,
gentleness and kindness never yet
experienced.

s 2K she bought, "I'd been to

mavh if.1 Could read in books'
for-L*' Id know what I yearn

The sun was high in the sky, and
Amanda's eyes gauged its position
as the only clock she could read. It
was noon, and her father must be
waiting in the cabin for her to cook
their mid-day meal.

"Yams, turnips-I dug them this
morn. I ought to have been home
before this. Pa'll say I've been loaf-

inHurriedly she stoked the fire and
shut the do'or and was off, runmng

lightly through the woods. And as
she ran, she laughed; she could not
be unhappy with the green glory

To her relief the cabin was empty.
Swiftly, she raked out the ashes on
the hearth, swung the kettles over
them and tossed in the yams and
turnips. She glanced up to see her
father in the doorway, and all the
wonder of the day fled; her dreams
had no power against the expression
13

Amanda flung out her arms to keep him away. "Don't touch me, Charlie."

on his stern, lean face.

"Amanda," he said, coming into
the room, "I've been talking to
Charlie Harris — he's coming up the
road soon — and he wants to know
when I'm keeping my sworn Valley
oath for you to be his wife."

Amanda leaned back against the
wall of the fireplace, her eyes wide
and dark in a face suddenly white.

"I'm not going to wed Charlie,
Pa! I'm not. I don't love him. I've
told you and told you how I feel.
And besides," with a flash of hope,
"I'm not finished with my bridal
quilt."

"You'll love him after you're wed.
And Charlie's not waiting longer for
you to do your quilt. You ought to
be glad, child, he's never held your
red hair against you."

Amanda shrank further against
the wall. "I just can't," she cried.
"I'd rather die before I let him
touch me. I've never let him put a
hand on me, and I sha'n't. I'll run
into the woods and hide until I die,
and the birds can cover me with
leaves as they covered the children
in the song ballad before I let Char-
lie marry me."

Joseph Dyke stepped toward her,
his dark face flushed.

"Stop that sinful talk. Charlie's
got to have help on the farm — the
hogs and the chickens need tending
to — all his planting is behind — "

A shadow fell across the sunlit
space before the door, and a heavy
man with sun-roughened face
stepped into the room.

"Have you told Amanda I'm los-

ing patience, that I'm not waiting
any longer?"

"Then get another girl, Charlie,
there's many that wants you — and I
don't." Amanda faced him, her
breath short, as she fought against
this terror from which there seemed
no way of escape.

Charlie moved toward her. "You'll
get over your fright. I'm here to
set the day."

Amanda flung out her arms to
keep away the man so close to her.

"Don't touch me, Charlie — "

"It's about time you got used to
romancing, Amanda." He pushed
her arms aside with easy strength
and caught her.

She did not scream, only moaned
as she twisted her head away. "Pa,
take him away — Pa — "

"Charlie's in the right," Dyke
said, walking toward the door. "I'm
shamed for you, Amanda."

She flung herself against the wall,
tearing desperately at the hands
which held her. In terror she was
under his arms and through the
door, before he could reach her. She
darted by her father, the tears run-
ning down her face.

"I'll die first— I'll die first," she
was sobbing. "I'll hide in the woods
— I won't come back."

Deeper and deeper into the en-
folding green she plunged, as briars
and underbrush tore her legs, over
ground that bruised even her feet,
until she stumbled, blind, unseeing,
into an open glen, and a hand caught
and held her. She stared out of
tear-filled eyes into the face of a
stranger, at one whom she knew had
no place in the Valley. And he
stared in equal amazement at her.

"Who are you?" he asked, and
neither was aware that his hand was
still on her shoulder, "a woodland
nymph or a dryad escaped from a
tree? You're beautiful," he added,
his eyes taking in her tumbled,
shimmering hair, her fair skin with
its wild rose color, the blue eyes so
deeply fringed, and the slim young
figure. "Diana of the forest — "

"Am I?" asked Amanda. "Well,"
her gaze had never left his face,
"you're wonderful, too, the most
wonderful person I've ever seen."

"Then you haven't seen many
people." Suddenly conscious of the
soft rounded shoulder under his
fingers, the stranger dropped his
hand and stood smiling at her.

"No, I haven't seen many people,
just the Valley folks."

"I might have guessed you were a
Valley girl. What's your name?
Heavens, how I'd like to paint you
— I wonder if I could make that skin
come alive — "

"Amanda Dyke," she answered,
moving softly across the grass, and

BADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

sitting down on a log. She was no
longer crying, but she could not
stop the trembling of her body.
"What's yours?"

"Edward Leighton and I live up
on the hill." He could not take his
eyes from her as he talked.

"In the white house?" her voice
was eager, "a white house that
shines through the trees — like a
dream house?"

"You're a strange girl," young
Leighton moved toward her. "Yes,
it is beautiful, and it's called Honey-
moon House."

"That's a pretty name," Amanda
said, softly, then exclaimed, startled,
"you're an outlander!"

"An outlander? Lord, no. My
people have lived there for almost
two hundred years."

"You're an outlander," she re-
peated, firmly, "we in the Valley
were here before you came."

"What of it? Oh, you're cold."
Close to her, he saw how she shiv-
ered, how she held her hands so
they would not tremble. He pulled
off his coat, and as he placed it
around her shoulders and sat down
on the log beside her she smiled at
him with a startled expression.

"You're gentle," she said, "and
kind. But I'm not cold; I've been
afraid."

"Of what? Who has frightened
you?" There was quick anger in
his voice.

"It's nothing to tell an outlander."
Amanda was looking without em-
barrassment at his face. "I like
your eyes — gray like a winter
sky—"

"Oh, Amanda," he laughed,
"you're marvelous. Will you come
up to Honeymoon House? I've a
studio there. I want to paint you."

"Paint me?"

"I mean make a picture of you.
I'm an artist. See?" He jumped to
his feet and went over to where he
had set up a small easel. "I was
doing this when you came along."

"It's pretty. The flowers look real
enough to smell — "

She stopped in surprise and
jumped to her feet, her hands flut-
tering over her heart. From far be-
low them came the sound of a man's

angry voice, calling:

"Amanda — Amanda — where are
you?"

"It's Pa!" she cried. "I've got to
go. He'd be furious if he found me
here. He might harm you."

Edward Leighton caught her arm.
"But I must see you again. You will
come to Honeymoon House, won't
you? I must do your portrait."

"I can't tell," Amanda's eyes were
troubled pools of blue, her lips
quivered. "I can't tell. But I thank
you kindly for your gentleness."
She raised her voice. "Yes, Pa,
I'm coming. And, Edward, please,
you go home. The Valley people
wouldn't like you here."

Her father caught her roughly by
the arm when she ran down to him,
his face dark with rage. But as he
led her home he said nothing, and
though Amanda knew it might have
been better for her had he abused
her, she did not care. Lost in a
tender wonder, her thoughts with
the tall young stranger, she was but
vaguely aware of her outer world.
Like a sleep walker, dreaming some
sweet dream, she went about her
evening tasks, and then sat before
the cabin door, looking up at the
stars as, one by one, they sprinkled
the night sky. He lived there — he
— Edward — lived in that white
house — his fingers had been gentle
when he touched her — he had put
his coat around her. She saw her
father light the lamp and open his
Bible, and knew that soon she must
go to her little room and creep into
her bed. She longed to stay all
night under the wide sky, lost,
wrapped in this soft glory. But
when her head touched her hard
pillow, her thoughts slipped into
a night dream, and she was once
again with Edward in the glen.

When Amanda woke to another
day of cloudless blue there was a
new wonder to the world, but, also,
a strange bewilderment. She wanted
to laugh and to cry, to sing and to
be very still. And she longed for
someone wise enough to explain this
troubled happiness within her. Aunt
Maisie, she thought, I'll go to Aunt
Maisie, so old no one knows how
long she has lived. She will tell me

what is the matter with me. Amanda
hurried along the wood path before
her father could ask her about the
tweed coat which she had forgotten
to give back to Edward Leighton
and which was hanging now in her
room.

But to Amanda's disappointment,
the story she had to tell met with
instant disapproval.

"Don't have anything to do with
the outlanders; it'll bring trouble
to you. It always has, it always
will — bad luck and black trouble."

"Oh, Aunt Maisie," the girl
pleaded, "he was wonderful — gentle
and handsome. Why would there
be trouble from someone like that?"

The old woman rocked back and
forth on her tiny porch. "The
Leightons have lived in their big
houses for years and years and
years, proud and rich — tobacco fields
for miles and miles bringing money
to their doors. But we were here
before them in Virginia. Don't you
see that young man again. You'll
wed Charlie, obedient to your pa — "

"Listen — listen!" Amanda jumped
to her feet, the wild rose color stain-
ing her cheeks. "That's Edward,
calling my name. Aunt Maisie, I'm
afraid to see him. I'm afraid — "

Amanda's eyes were wide as
those of some wild animal of the
woods. With a glance over her
shoulder she ran into the cabin. She
peered from the tiny window, her
heart beating loudly in her ears, her
lips parted as she saw Edward
Leighton cross the clearing and
come up to the steps. But she could
not move as she heard him ask about
her, or even when Aunt Maisie told
him there was no red-haired girl
in the Valley. She longed to call,
but no sound came, as he glanced
around, then moved away and dis-
appeared among the trees. It was
not until she saw her father on the
other side of the clearing that she
ran out — only to have the old, sick

OCTOBER, 1941

terror sweep over her at his first
words.

"I've taken your wedding chest to
Charlie's farm."

"But — that's as good as being wed
to him!" Amanda cried.

"That's why I've done it, child,"
he answered, his face set. "You've
been meeting an outlander, and I
aim to save trouble."

Amanda lifted desperate, pleading
eyes, but there was neither pity nor
understanding in her father's face.

"Get back to the cabin, Amanda,"
he ordered, "and stay there. I'll
tend the kiln today, and if any
stranger comes by, he won't talk
long to me." His laugh was short
and hard.

There were no tears in Amanda's
eyes as she walked through the
woods, or when, in the cabin, she
buried her face against Edward
Leighton's coat. Then, suddenly,
she caught it from its hook and ran
out the door and up, up the road,
until she stood, breathless, before
the white house on its high hill,
surrounded by flowers, shaded by
trees — her house of dreams.
She peered through the first
window she came to, then
another and another, until
with a tremulous sigh she
saw the tall form of Ed-
ward standing before a
canvas on an easel. She
crept toward the door
and pushed it open,
and he raised his eyes
and saw her. For a
long minute they
looked at each other,
not moving, only aware
that they were together
again. Then he sprang
across the room and, her
hands in his, drew her in.

"I've been looking for
you all over that confounded
Valley, and an old woman said
you didn't exist. I was fright-
ened— I thought I'd lost you. See,"
he waved toward the easel, "I was
making an attempt from memory —
and it was no go."

"Wait, Edward — I can't walk on
all those flowers."

"Flowers!" Edward stared, then
laughed. "That's a carpet, Amanda.
It's there to be walked on. Those
aren't real flowers. Come on, get up
there on that platform. I can't wait
to start painting you."

"It's so beautiful to walk on,"
Amanda said, almost tiptoeing
across the floor. A sharp ring
startled her, and she turned, ready
to run, her hands at her ears.

"What — what was that?"

"Only the telephone." Edward
picked up the receiver, and his voice
was a trifle impatient in its refusal

of some suggestion. When he turned
he saw Amanda, her lower lip
caught between her teeth, her face
colorless.

"The — the telephone?" she stam-
mered, And when Edward nodded,
she said hastily, "I'd best be going."

"Amanda," he caught her hands,
"why? Don't be frightened, there's
no danger. Won't you believe me?"

Amanda sighed, the blue of
her eyes deepened with the
question she had so often
asked herself: why, in this
beautiful world around her,
must there be so much hate?

She raised her eyes to his with
such utter trust that a lump rose in
his throat. "If you say so, Edward,
I believe you."

"Fine," he exclaimed. "Now you
come over here. You don't mind
standing still for a little while, do
you?"

"Not if you'll tell me about your-
self. Have you a mother?"

Edward smiled to himself. What
would his mother, Susan Leighton,
think if she could hear Amanda's
question? And, as he made his pre-
liminary sketch, he told Amanda
about his sister, his Uncle Bob, and
of the Big House on the farther side
of the sweeping lawns where they
lived. Amanda listened, lost to

everything but the sound of his
voice and the peace and beauty of
this sunlit room. Suddenly she
sensed someone other than them-
selves close by; she swung around,
and there in the doorway stood a
girl, slim, white and golden. And
Amanda hated the way she smiled
as she walked into the room, speak-
ing in a clear, cold voice.

"So this is the reason," she waved
her hand at Amanda, "you couldn't
come over to Big House when I
asked you."

"Hullo, Sylvia," Edward said
casually. "Of course I couldn't come.
This is Amanda Dyke — and Amanda,
this is Sylvia Meadows." He laid
aside his brushes.

"Oh yes, the Valley girl you told
us about." Sylvia did not turn her
head. "Surely, she can come some
other time. I need your advice about
tomorrow night."

Amanda stepped down from the
dais with gentle dignity. "I didn't
mean to intrude. If you and
Edward — "
"Edward!" For the first time Syl-
via faced her. "Wouldn't Mr.
Leighton be more in keeping
with your — "
"Sylvia!" Edward's voice
was sharp. "I'm sorry,
Amanda."

Sylvia made a quick,
impatient gesture. "You
see, Amanda, Mrs.
Leighton is giving a
dance tomorrow at
which our engagement
is to be announced."
"You and Edward are
going to be married?"
Amanda asked slowly.
Z "Yes." The clear, cold
voice was indifferent; the
level gaze swept apprais-
mgly from Amanda's head
co her feet. "You are almost
as lovely as he said."
Edward frowned. Then Amanda
spoke, gently. "I hope you make a
good wife to Edward. He is won-
derful— and kind. I'll be getting
home now. Goodby, Edward."

He stopped her before she reached
the door.

"Promise you'll come tomorrow.
I'll be unhappy if you don't."

"I can't promise. There is some-
thing I haven't told you about me —
and Pa — "

Amanda went slowly down the
hill. "I don't think," she said to her-
self, "that Sylvia will make Edward
a good wife. She's not kind. And
she won't listen properly to him.
But I'll try to go back to see him
if I can — just to please him."

She did not know as she walked
through the afternoon sunlight, that
darkness (Continued on page 74)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

She's the teen-age girl who lives in
every town of America — naive, yet
so wise beyond her years. She's Pat
Ryan, delightful new star, heroine
of her own radio program come to
life, and Radio Mirror's Cover Girl!

WHO IS

Lhten to Pat Ryan In
Claudia and David on
CBS Friday nights at
8, while Kate Smith's
taking her vacation.

IT was eight o'clock of a June eve-
ning. In the library at New
York's fine Metropolitan Club
gentlemen were playing bridge,
reading the evening papers, and
watching Fifth Avenue's perpetual
parade through the club's great
plate glass windows.

Ryan, who has served here for
many years, brought a millionaire
ship -builder his Scotch and Soda
and then hurried towards the radio.
And into that room came a girl's
voice, young and breathless as
dawn.

"Never heard that program be-
fore, Ryan," an elderly gentleman
announced. "But you have evi-
dently, judging by your inter-
est . . ."

Ryan straightened and the lamp-
light shone full upon his silvery
hair. "That's my daughter, Pat
Ryan, sir. She's making her debut
as 'Claudia' tonight. It's a new
program. But they expect great
things of it."

Several men came over. "Your

OCTOBER, 1941

daughter, you say, Ryan?" they said,
pleased for him. "Yon must be very
proud."

Slowly, as these rich and power-
ful men listened, they remembered
there still were other things in the
world besides Stuka bombers and
vassal people and war and hatred.
Mouths which had been stern curved
in little smiles and eyes that had
been tired took on a soft shine.

"Ryan,", said a merchant king,
"I'd appreciate it very much indeed
— I know how difficult these things
are — if you could arrange for my
wife and me to see your daughter's
broadcast some evening."

"I'll speak to Pat, sir," Ryan said.
"She'll be glad to do what she can,

I know-"

* # #

Funny the way life goes along
quietly, then accelerates into aus-
picious, unforgettable occasions.
Some people precipitate more occa-
sions than others, of course. Like

By Adele Whitely Fletcher

Pat Ryan, for instance.

Pat wasn't much more than a baby
that day her mother took her to an
entertainment and she begged so
very hard that they had to let her
perform too.

"If no one ever marries me
I shan't mind very much,"

she told the audience, who couldn't
believe such a little mite could speak
so clearly and possess such poise.

"I'll buy a squirrel in a cage,"
she went on

"And a little rabbit hutch
And when I'm getting really
old
About twenty-eight or nine,
I'll buy a little orphan girl
And bring her up as mine."

The applause, • the first to fall on
Pat's ears, was tremendous. And,
with the other children, she was
given two peaked scoops of vanilla
ice cream and a large slice of cake.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryan and Pat's
older sister, (Continued on page 76)

il 7a

Nothing like this had ever hap-
pened to me before. It was sweet
and terrifying, beautiful and
painful, all at the same time.

His creed was to take care of himself no matter how it hurt others
but that was before he met Jane who knew what it was to feel pity
for the "little people" of the world — because she was one herself

THERE wasn't a breath of air and
the heat shimmered back at me
from the pavement. The bag
of groceries was big and heavy and
hard to balance. My arms ached
from carrying it. The mile walk
from Middletown to the camp
seemed like ten miles and, as I
plodded along past the neat, small
houses on the road, the thought of
the dreariness that lay ahead of me
made me want to cry.

The camp was dismal enough,
ordinarily. Row after crooked row
of rundown trailers and patched up
tents and hastily thrown together
shacks of corrugated metal and
scraps of wood, perpetual wash-
lines sagging under the weight of
workmen's clothes from which the
grease stains were never quite re-
moved, screeching children and har-
assed, overworked mothers, the
eternal smell of meals cooking, and
that cramped, trapped feeling that
comes from too many people living
too close together.

But, after a rain like the one we'd
had earlier that afternoon, the camp
was turned into an indescribably
ugly, vast, slippery, mud puddle.
The satiated, red earth refused to
drink in all that water. The rutted
paths would hold the water for days
and, as it stagnated, insects would
breed there. And, no matter how
hard we women worked, how des-
perately we scrubbed and cleaned,
it would be days and days before we
got rid of the red mud tracked into
the trailers by our men folks and
children.

Turning in at the camp gate, I
had to crane my neck and watch
the ground to keep from slipping in
the mud. I had just rounded the
rear end of a trailer and thought,
absently, that I didn't remember
one having been there before, when
I saw the big puddle. I stepped
aside, just in time.

Something, someone, hit me on my
blind side — the side blotted out by
the tall bundle. The next moment,
the paper bag had split and things
were scattering and settling with
a squooshy sound into the mud. I
just stared, stupidly, at the mess,
the flour soaking up the water, the
sugar dissolving. Perversely, the
two dozen eggs had landed on solid
ground and were oozing stickily out

OCTOBER. 1941

of their boxes.

"Well!" a man's voice said. "I had
no idea they grew things like you
around here."

I looked up into a pair of grinning,
blue eyes. It was a stranger's face,
good looking, with a lean, hard jaw
and a full, laughing mouth. Dark
hair curled rakishly over his fore-
head. He was very tall and very
neat in a cool, summer suit and his
white shoes were spotless.

"Is that all you can say?" I asked
angrily.

"No," he grinned. "I might add
that you're by far the loveliest thing
I've seen in years. And that's some-
thing."

"A touch of manners would be
better than all that blarney," I said.
I stooped down to see what could be
saved.

"You're not going to pick up those
things?" he said, as though he were
astounded. "They're spoiled."

"We don't waste things around
here," I said furiously. "We work
too hard for what little we've got."

I started to collect the soggy,
dirty packages into the front of
my skirt, and he bent down to help.
But I was too angry to accept his
aid. All I wanted was to splash him
with mud, to spoil his immaculate
complacency, but I managed to con-
trol the impulse.

When I stood up, the parcels un-
tidily clutched in my arms, he'd
stopped smiling and was just look-
ing at me. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Really, I am."

"That's fine!" I snapped. "Only
we can't eat it — your being sorry."
And I left him there and hurried to
our trailer, the red, clayey water
dripping through my dress.

I dropped the forlorn mess into
the tiny sink. And suddenly, every-
thing was too much to bear. My
dinner was ruined. My 'dress was
ruined. My budget for the week
was ruined. What kind of a life
was that, when a little accident,

the carelessness of a stranger, could
cause such havoc?

And we'd come a thousand miles
for this kind of a life!

Defense work! That was the
will-o'-the-wisp that had led up
over a thousand miles to Middle-
town. Oh, the work was there, all
right, plenty of it. But there was
no place for all the workers, who
flocked there from all parts of the
country, to live, no houses, no apart-
ments. Even shacks, renting at
fantastic prices, were crammed full.

We'd almost turned back, that
first evening three months before,
but, like everyone else, we didn't
dare. There were jobs here for
skilled mechanics like Dad and my
two older brothers, Al and Tom,
jobs with good pay. And back
home, in the East, there was noth-
ing left for us, no chance of work,
no home — because we'd sold our
house in order to be able to get to
Middletown, no hope of being able
to bring up Julie and Bud decently,
send them to school. Back home,
the only thing that was left to us
was to apply for relief. And, I
think, Dad would have preferred to
die before doing that.

So, we had stayed, even though it
had meant sacrificing comfort and
decency. We thought it would only
be like that for a short while. Only
it wasn't a short while. And grad-
ually, every hope we'd had that
things would change, that the
rumored housing project would
really get under way and we could
live like human beings again, in-
stead of like cattle herded into a
camp ground that wouldn't even
have made a decent pasture, every
hope began to fade. Even the rumors
had died down. Since the State
Legislature had voted a huge ap-
propriation for the housing project,
there was a strange, mysterious
silence on the whole business in
Middletown. And all of us, and all
the new families who arrived day
after day, went right on living in
the camp, hopelessly and helplessly
trapped by our need to work.

I glanced at the clock above my
bunk. It was late. My weeping
hadn't helped much. Dad and the
boys would be coming home from
work soon, tired and hungry, and
there was still some sort of a meal

co be made. I stripped off my muddy
clothes and stepped into the shower.
At least, our trailer was equipped
with that.

[ felt a little better, after I'd
i leaned up. When I discovered that
the steak — a real luxury to us —
hadn't been hurt, at all, I was al-
most happy. I was busy scrubbing
the mud off the vegetables, when
someone knocked at the open door.
[ looked around. It was the stran-
ger. He had changed his clothes
and he was carrying a grocery bag.

j — " HE smiled ingratiatingly, "I
I thought I ought to replace those
things." Without waiting to be
asked, he stepped up into the trailer.
"Where can I put these?" he asked.

I let down the tiny folding table
and be began laying out the things
he'd bought. "Flour, sugar, eggs,
coffee, soap powder, tomatoes,
bread," he grinned. "I think I got
everything."

About twice too much," I said.
"Look — we can't take all those
things from you. After all, it was
an accident."

Did anyone ever tell you you're
very beautiful, when you're angry?"
he asked irrelevantly. I'm afraid I
blushed. He laughed and put out
his hand. "My name's Rand Ferrell.
Let's be friends."

I had to laugh, too. "All right," I
said. "I'm Jane Burley."

He sprawled out on my bunk and
lit a cigarette. I went on with my
work. He was a little in the way,
but I couldn't think of how to get
rid of him. Maybe, I didn't really
want to. He was very amusing and
there was something vaguely fa-
miliar about the way he talked, but
I didn't pay too much attention to
that. I put it down to his easy,
friendly manner. He asked lots of
questions, about the camp, about
work.

"Oh, there's plenty of work," I
said. "Are you looking for a job?"
Sure," he said.

'They need skilled mechanics," I
said.

•Well?"
You're no mechanic," I said.

He laughed. "How do you know?"
Your hands," I said.

Okay, Miss Sherlock," he grinned.
I'm no mechanic. But I can learn.
If there's really so much work, they
in use a few apprentices."

I could have disillusioned him on
that score, but I didn't. There were
too many really skilled men, for the
bosses to bother with apprentices,
besides, I didn't have time to talk
my more. Julie and Bud came in
whooping and demanding their sup-
per and it got pretty crowded inside
the trailer, what with Rand Fer-

rell telling the kids about New York
and Julie and Bud hovering around
him worshipingly. Then Dad and
the boys came home and everyone
was introduced and, somehow, Rand
was invited to eat with us. Of course,
he accepted.

We ate outside on a large, rough
table. Before we'd finished our
soup, Dad and Al and Tom and
Rand were deep in man-talk about
the conditions in Middletown. And,
listening to them, it struck me that
for someone who'd just arrived in
town that day, Rand was remark-
ably well informed about local con-
ditions. I wondered about that. Why
had he come there, then? And I
remembered his expensive looking
suit and the shiny, new trailer. He
didn't look like someone so des-
perately in need of a job that he'd
be willing to put up with life in that
camp.

When it was time to wash the
dishes, nothing would do but that
he help me. I wasn't too crazy about
the idea, because men can be very
sloppy, even in a large kitchen. And
he was unusually clumsy. He han-
dled the dishes as though he'd never
seen a plate before. Yet, I didn't
want to say anything, I didn't want
him to go away. He was so different
from the boys and men in camp. He
was lighthearted and charming —
and, although I was sure it was just
a line — he was nattering.

"Jane," he said, bending to look
into my eyes, "are your eyes really
green?"

"Only sometimes," I said. "They
change."

"I've heard about such things," he
said. "But I've never seen them.
Let me see."

I felt like a fool, but my heart
was strangely glad that he wanted
to be there, saying those silly things
to me.

"Like a magazine cover," Rand
said. "Red hair, green eyes. You
know, for years I've thought that
girls with faces like yours were just
dreamed up by artists. Maybe, I'm
dreaming too."

I had to laugh. I didn't know
what else to do. Even if it was
just idle chatter on his part, it was
nice to hear. I guess every girl in
the world needs a little flattery, now
and then, to sustain her, to make
her feel alive. My heart was beating
very fast and I was intensely aware
of his nearness to me. And my
head kept saying over and over,
"Careful Janie. You don't know
him. You don't know anything
about him."

It made sense. It also made sense,
at least to me, to remedy it. "Rand,"
I said at last, when the dishes were
done and we'd gone outside again,

"you're not fooling me. What are
you doing here? Honestly, now."

"Looking for work," Rand said.
He took a piece of paper out of his
pocket. "I saw this handbill, saying
there are plenty of defense jobs here
in Middletown — "

It was too transparent. He saw
me smile, and his voice trailed off.
"It's no good, Rand," I said. "You
don't really need a job. We're sim-
ple people here, and we like others
to be direct and sincere. What are
you doing in this place?"

Rand lowered his eyes. "Smart,
too, aren't you, Jane? All right,
I'm not looking for a job. I'm a
radio reporter." Of course, I thought,
that was why his voice had seemed
so familiar. How stupid of me not
to have connected him with radio
as soon as I heard his name. But
who would have expected Rand Fer-
rell, the famous coast to coast news-
caster, to turn up in a sordid camp
in Middletown?

"Maybe you've heard me do spot
broadcasts," he said. I nodded. I'd
heard him broadcast an exciting re-

■k. ,'^aMMl

■. "S.

»■

■

'''.-jB WLr

■

■»w

^fek

^i^^P -

■

"It's no good

" 1

said. "You don't really

RADIO

AND TELEVISION MIRROR

i
i

port from a mine that had exploded.

"But, what are you doing here?"
I asked.

"Well, defense is a big thing in
this country, now," he explained.
"This is a defense boom town. So,
I'm here to do a broadcast on what
it's like in a defense boom town. I
thought I'd get better dope, if I pre-
tended to be a worker."

"I see," I said.

"I still think I can find out more
— if everyone doesn't know why I'm
here," he said. I agreed with him.
"Now that that's over, what can we
do tonight?"

"Not so fast," I said. "I've got to
put the kids to bed. Besides, there's
not much to do. We can take a walk.
I'll show you the rest of our 'estate'."

I'm afraid I rather rushed Julie
and Bud into bed. I suspected that
Bud wasn't washing too carefully,
but I didn't stop to give him a thor-
ough going over, for which Bud was,
no doubt, very thankful. Then I
hurried to put on my prettiest dress.

It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but al-
ready the camp was settling down

need a job. So what are you doing here?"

for the night. Rand and I walked
quietly through the camp and I
showed him the communal showers
and the place where the women did
their washing. I told him about the
store run by the camp owners,
where everything was so expensive
that most of us preferred to walk
the mile into town to get what we
needed. I showed him the wood
pile, which we all used for our cook
fires and which was replenished on
Sundays by the men in camp.

We crossed a little, plank bridge
to the other side of the creek. It
was like stepping into another coun-
try, another world. Here, massive
willow trees trailed their lacey
branches in the water and the grass
was fresh and untrammelled and the
slope had drained and was dry and
soft to sit upon.

We sprawled out on the bank of
the creek and our talk drifted lazily,
slowly, over many things, very
much as the gurgling water trickled
over the rocks at our feet. Rand
told me a little about himself. And
I told him about myself, about the
home we'd left in the East, about
the small State college to which I
had gone until Dad lost his job and
Mother died and I was needed at
home to run the house and take care
of Julie and Bud.

Finally, we got back to camp.
"And now that you've seen this
place," I said, "just what are you
going to tell your listeners?"

"Oh," Rand said casually, "I'll tell
them all about the wonderful de-
termination of the people to carry
on the defense of our country. I'll
talk about the heroism of the
workers, their willingness to sacri-
fice— oh, you know, all the business
about how they're even willing to
live in trailers so the work can be
done."

I COULD hardly believe I'd heard
him correctly. He'd seemed so
shocked by the conditions under
which we all lived. "But," I said,
"what about the way we're forced
to live here? That's not necessary
for defense. What about the hous-
ing project that's supposed to take
care of us? Aren't you going to say
anything about that? Aren't you
going to tell the public that places
.like this aren't fit for people to
live, in?"

"Jane," Rand said, "listeners want
to hear how defense work is com-
ing along. They want to know how
many tanks and airplanes and guns
are being turned out."

"Of course," I said. "We're inter-
ested in that, too, or we wouldn't be
here. But what about the truth?
What about all these people?"

"All these people aren't any of

OCTOBER, 1941

my business," he said.

"But they are!" I cried. "It's every
decent, honest person's business,
when hundreds of people are forced
to live like this."

"Take it easy, Jane," Rand
laughed. "I'm a reporter, not a re-
former. I give the listeners what
they want to hear, not what they
ought to hear. My sponsors like
it that way — and they're the ones
who hand out the pay checks and
the contracts. I have to watch out
for my job, Janie. I've still got a
long way to go to get to the top."

"I see," I said angrily. "That's a
fine philosophy — take care of your-
self and the devil with everyone
else!"

"Well, no, not exactly," Rand
grinned. "I'm willing to take care
of some people — like you, for in-
stance." Suddenly, he was leaning
over me, his face very close to mine.
"Jane, you're maddeningly beauti-
ful when you're angry."

He was kissing me, his lips pressed
against mine. Their warmth set
the blood to burning under my skin.
Nothing like this had ever happened
to me before. It was sweet and ter-
rifying, beautiful and painful, all
at the same time. With part of me
I wanted to push him away, but
another part of me cried out for
him to hold me closer.

"Let's go back," I forced myself
to whisper. "Let's go back, now."

It was insanity, I reminded my-
self later, when I was in bed. It
was hopeless, but I couldn't stop
it. My senses seemed to have fled.
A part of my mind kept warning
me that Rand Ferrell wasn't for me,
that I was a fool, that he was prob-
ably just amusing himself with me,
that, if he hadn't been kissing me,
he would have been kissing one of
the other young girls in the camp,
because he had to pass the time as
pleasantly as possible. But it did
no good. I found that I didn't care
why he was kissing me. I didn't
care that in another few days he'd
be gone and I'd probably never see
him again. Nothing mattered, but
that I should keep this wonderful
thing that had happened to me,
close and sweet, for what little time
I had.

Luckily for my peace of mind —
and for the health of my family, I
saw very little of Rand in the next
couple of days. It was possible for
me to collect my scattered wits a
little. Nevertheless, on the second
evening, when I saw him walking
toward our trailer, my heart went
racing off again.

"Hello," I managed to say. "How's
the work going?"

"Fine," he said, but there was no
enthusiasm (Continued on page 83)

to be made. I stripped off my muddy
■lothes and stepped into the shower.
At least, our trailer was equipped
with that.

I felt a little better, after I'd
cleaned up. When I discovered that
i he steak — a real luxury to us —
hadn't been hurt, at all, I was al-
most happy. I was busy scrubbing
the mud off the vegetables, when
■someone knocked at the open door.
I looked around. It was the stran-
ger. He had changed his clothes
,md he was carrying a grocery bag.

I — " HE smiled ingratiatingly, "I
I thought I ought to replace those
ihings." Without waiting to be
asked, he stepped up into the trailer.
Where can I put these?" he asked.
1 let down the tiny folding table
mid be began laying out the things
he'd bought. "Flour, sugar, eggs,
coffee, soap powder, tomatoes,
bread," he grinned. "I think I got
everything."

About twice too much," I said.
Look — we can't take all those
things from you. After all, it was
an accident."

'Did anyone ever tell you you're
very beautiful, when you're angry?"
he asked irrelevantly. I'm afraid I
blushed. He laughed and put out
his hand. "My name's Rand Ferrell.
Let's be friends."

I had to laugh, too. "All right," I
snd. "I'm Jane Burley."

lie sprawled out on my bunk and
lit a cigarette. I went on with my
work. He was a little in the way,
but I couldn't think of how to get
rid of him. Maybe, I didn't really
want to. He was very amusing and
there was something vaguely fa-
miliar about the way he talked, but
I didn't pay too much attention to
that. I put it down to his easy,
friendly manner. He asked lots of
questions, about the camp, about
work.

"Oh, there's plenty of work," I
said. "Are you looking for a job?"
"Sure," he said.

"They need skilled mechanics," I
said.

"Well?"

"You're no mechanic," I said.
He laughed. "How do you know?"
"Your hands," I said.
Okay, Miss Sherlock," he grinned.
"I'm no mechanic. But I can learn.
If there's really so much work, they
can use a few apprentices."

I could have disillusioned him on
that score, but I didn't. There were
too many really skilled men, for the
bosses to bother with apprentices.
Besides, I didn't have time to talk
any more. Julie and Bud came in
whooping and demanding their sup-
per and it got pretty crowded inside
the trailer, what with Rand Fer-
20

"Jane," he said, bending to look
into my eyes, "are your eyes really
green?"

"Only sometimes," I said. "They
change."

"I've heard about such things," he
said. "But I've never seen them.
Let me see."

I felt like a fool, but my heart
was strangely glad that he wanted
to be there, saying those silly things
to me.

"Like a magazine cover," Rand
said. "Red hair, green eyes. You
know, for years I've thought that
uiiis with faces like yours were just
dreamed up by artists. Maybe, I'm
dreaming too."

It made sense. It also made sense,
at least to me, to remedy it. "Rand,"
I said at last, when the dishes were
done and we'd gone outside again,

"you're not fooling me. What are
you doing here? Honestly, now."

"Looking for work," Rand said.
He took a piece of paper out of his
pocket. "I saw this handbill, saying
there are plenty of defense jobs here
in Middletown — "

"Maybe you've heard me do spot
broadcasts," he said. I nodded. I'd
heard him broadcast an exciting re-

rt from a mine that had exploded.
"But, what are you doing here?"
I asked.

"I still think I can find out more
__if everyone doesn't know why I'm
here," he said. I agreed with him.
"Now that that's over, what can we
do tonight?"

"Not so fast," I said. "I've got to
put the kids to bed. Besides, there's
not much to do. We can take a walk.
I'll show you the rest of our 'estate'."
I'm afraid I rather rushed Julie
and Bud into bed. I suspected that
Bud wasn't washing too carefully,
but I didn't stop to give him a thor-
ough going over, for which Bud was,
no doubt, very thankful. Then I
hurried to put on my prettiest dress.
It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but al-
ready the camp was settling down

S£ tVtne T ' "^
showed him thV. amp and I

and the Sli^?Ml shower.

a"d the place whereT

ih^i , the women did

m about the

nP owners,

° expensive

^e mile int;t;VnTgeetdw°harlk
needed t „u__ . . get what we

their washing i tow heWTen
store run bv thT about the

-here everyt^^ °m

St0- ™» hy th ™

the mi,. °! Vs P^ferred to walk

'It's no good," I said. "You don't really

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIBBOH

^L;o.OWhatarey0udoin9"ere?"

IQl. 1941

"« •>'«■ I showed h,r,h

willow trees tra^d if ' • masslve
branches in the watan^t'h ^
was fresh and unTrammenea and' Z

slowly, over many things, very

Ter th^116 frgling Water trickS
over the rocks at our feet. Rand

t i^t a hUle about himself. And
1 told him about myself, about the
home we'd left in the East, about
the small State college to which I
t ^Sone until Dad lost his job and
Mother died and I was needed at
home to run the house and take care
of Julie and Bud.

t Finally, we got back to camp
And now that you've seen this
place," I said, "just what are you
going to tell your listeners?"

"Oh," Rand said casually, "I'll tell
them all about the wonderful de-
termination of the people to carry
on the defense of our country. I'll
talk about the heroism of the
workers, their willingness to sacri-
fice^— oh, you know, all the business
about how they're even willing to
live in trailers so the work can be
done."

| COULD hardly believe I'd heard
' him correctly. He'd seemed so
shocked by the conditions under
which we all lived. "But," I said,
"what about the way we're forced
to live here? That's not necessary
for defense. What about the hous-
ing project that's supposed to take
care of us? Aren't you going to say
anything about that? Aren't you
going to tell the public that places
.like this aren't fit for people to
live, in?"

"Jane," Rand said, "listeners want
to hear how defense work is com-
ing along. They want to know how
many tanks and airplanes and guns
are being turned out."

"Of course," I said. "We're inter-
ested in that, too, or we wouldn't be
here. But what about the truth?
What about all these people?"
"All these people aren't any of

my business," he said

ririikftt"fpeopiearef=

laughed6 I"*' Jane'" Ra"d
aligned. I m a reporter, not a re-
former. I give the list

0UHhtTV° hear' n0t What «S
ought to hear. My sponsors like

who h Way~and they're the ones
who hand out the pay checks and
the contracts. I have to watch out
for my job, Janie. I've still got a
long way to go to get to the top "

see-, ' I said angrily. "That's a
fine philosophy-take care of your-
seH and the devil with everyone

"Well, no, not exactly," Rand
grinned. "I'm willing to take care
of some people— like you, for in-
stance." Suddenly, he was leaning
oyer me, his face very close to mine
Jane you're maddeningly beauti-
ful when you're angry."

He was kissing me, his lips pressed
?,galn,st mine. Their warmth set
the blood to burning under my skin
Nothing like this had ever happened
to me before. It was sweet and ter-
rifying, beautiful and painful, all
at the same time. With part of me
I wanted to push him away, but
another part of me cried out for
him to hold me closer.

"Let's go back," I forced myself
to whisper. "Let's go back, now."
It was insanity, I reminded my-
self later, when I was in bed. It
was hopeless, but I couldn't stop
it. My senses seemed to have fled.
A part of my mind kept warning
me that Rand Ferrell wasn't for me,
that I was a fool, that he was prob-
ably just amusing himself with me,
that, if he hadn't been kissing me,
he would have been kissing one of
the other young girls in the camp,
because he had to pass the time as
pleasantly as possible. But it did
no good. I found that I didn't care
why he was kissing me. I didn't
care that in another few days he'd
be gone and I'd probably never see
him again. Nothing mattered, but
that I should keep this wonderful
thing that had happened to me,
close and sweet, for what little time
I had.

"Hello," I managed to say. "How's
the work going?"

"Fine," he said, but there was no
enthusiasm (Continued on page 83)

Tune in Pepper Young's Family weekdays at 11:15 A.M., E.D.T., over the NBC-Red network, sponsored by P & G. Naphtha

rzffiefc (J?urt<zs mmta/

IN LIVING PORTRAITS

With these beautiful photographs of Pepper, Linda, Biff, Curtis Bradley and Hattie Williams,
you can now complete your own special picture album of radio's popular family from Elmwood

PEPPER YOUNG (left) is a typical
American boy of nineteen. His name is
William Culpepper, but you had better
call him Pepper. Pepper is filled with
amazing vitality, he excells at football,
basketball and hockey, and his real
passion is aviation. Pepper was only
sixteen when you first met him, but
even at that precocious age he was dis-
tinguishing himself. When his father's
factory was flooded, he risked his life
to save valuable papers. Later, when
Mr. Young's fortune was wiped away,
Pepper left school for a year to help the
family out. Pepper has had girl trouble,
crushes which every adolescent gets, but
his real love is a childhood sweetheart,
Linda Benton. He also loves his sister
Peggy, and is forever teasing her. When
he graduated from Elmwood High, he
wanted to join the Army Air Corp, but
he was too young. He is now learning
to fly at a local civilian Air School.
(Played by Curtis Arnall)

LINDA BENTON (right) is a whole-
some, pretty blonde girl of eighteen.
She adores Pepper, is full of fun, and
also is very practical, and Pepper's
parents both feel that some day she'll
make a fine wife for their son. Linda
and Pepper have quarreled over other
girls with whom Pepper has been tem-
porarily infatuated. There was trouble
over a young aviatrix and a girl from
California named Marcella, but- that's
over and now Pepper and Linda have an
understanding. They know that some
day they will be married. It almost
happened when Pepper nearly landed a
job on the Elmwood Free Press. Linda
feels that Pepper can't possibly love her
as much as she loves him. But, as she
told Mrs. Young, "You don't always
expect the one you love to love you as
much as you love him." As each day
goes by, Pepper finds more wonderful
qualities in her and loves her more.
(Played by Eunice Howard)

OCTOBER. 1941

NBC photo* by Jackson & Desfor

BIFF BRADI.F.Y, son of Curtis Bradley, is Pepper Young's best friend. While his father was missing,
he lived with the Youngs. They treated him like their own son, helped him with all his youthful problems.
Biff is a very sensitive young man, wistful, easily hurt. For a number of years he was very much in love with
Peggy Young, but he never did much about it because Peggy always had so many boy friends. As he grew
older, he began to realize that his love for Peggy was more like that of a brother for a sister. Biff's next
crush was on Edic Gray. He got over that, too. Some day he will meet the right girl, but just now he
is too concerned about Peggy's troubles with the Trent family to think about himself. He wants to see
Peggy happy and, now that she has broken her engagement to Carter, he is trying his best to cheer her up.

(Played by Laddie Seaman)

24 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

HATTIE WILLIAMS (right) is the Young
family's maid, but nobody ever thinks of her as
the maid, she's more like one of the family.
When Mrs. Young was ill a few years ago, she
hired this twenty-year-old girl to help her around
the house. Hattie's been with the Youngs ever
since and her life, in spite of their kindness,
hasn't been an easy one. Her husband, a sailor
named Jack Williams, deserted her shortly after
her marriage, leaving her with a one-year-old
baby, called Butch. Several years later, Williams
came back, very contrite, and Hattie forgave
him. The Youngs gave the couple a small cottage
right next to their home. Then, one night,
Hattie went out and left her husband to care
for the baby. Pepper, passing the cottage,
suddenly saw it burst into flames. He dashed
into the house and rescued little Butch, but
Hattie's husband is believed to have perished
in the fire. Since the tragedy, Hattie, who is
not unattractive, has had several proposals.
Hank, a caretaker for Mr. Bradley, wanted to
marry her, but Hattie said no. Hattie still
loves her husband and clings to the hope that
he may not have died and will return again some
day. She is always a sweet and loyal person.
(Played by Greta Kvalden)

CURTIS BRADLEY (left) is a square shooter,
a man with high ideals and a wonderful sense of
humor. When the Youngs first met him he was
quite a wealthy man, but not a very happy one.
His wife had deserted him several years before,
leaving him with an only child, Biff. Bradley and
Sam Young went into business together, opening
a factory in Elmwood. Curt was injured by a
falling beam while trying to rescue money from
their factory during a flood, and, after that,
began suffering from amnesia. One day, he
suddenly disappeared and all efforts to find him
were useless until he suddenly reappeared again
about a year ago, cured of his sickness, but
penniless. Sam Young's business was in bad
straits, but he took Qurt back into partner-
ship again. Curt Bradley, however, was not the
sort of man who could be happy feeling he was
a drag on others. He eventually found himself
a job in Chicago and when Mr. and Mrs. Trent
insulted Peggy, he went to see them and in his
very persuasive and charming manner almost set
things right again. But when Peggy, visiting
the Trents, broken hcartcdly told him how Mrs.
Trent had been treating her, Bradley advised her
to go home and put her on the train for Elmwood.
(Played by Ed Wolfe)

Not even Bill's sweet kiss wiped out the knowledge that
there was something in her past she dared not remember,
something that held her back from the rapture he offered

OU see, my dear, you'll have
to earn your own living now."

Dr. Chase's voice was gentle and
soothing. In the late-afternoon
sunlight that came in through the
slats of the Venetian blind, I saw
through his silver-gray hair to the
clean, ruddy scalp at its roots. I
liked Dr. Chase so very much, and
trusted him completely — although I
could not seem to remember, quite,
when I had first met him, or how.

This room, too, this house . . . how
had I come here? I must have
moved into it just after I had
graduated from college, but . . .
why?

Of course, I'd been ill.

That was it. That must be it.
I'd been ill, and Dr. Chase had
brought me here to get well. And
while I was ill something had hap-
pened to the little money my father
and mother had left me when I was
sixteen and they were both killed
in a motor accident.

"Yes," I said to Dr. Chase, nod-
ding seriously — because, for some
reason I couldn't define, I didn't
want him to know there were things
I couldn't remember. "Yes, I know.

Oa* of radio's most haunting
roMoncti, told i»w a* a Wvld
ifcorf story — flcflon/f«cf by
Norton Russell from tfco drama
by Bob Hart mam tint hoard o»
CIS' First NJahtor proaram.
spoasorarf by *■• Campama Co.

I'm afraid there isn't much I could
do to make money. Maybe I could
teach. . . ."

He took me up on that eagerly.
"Exactly what I was thinking,
Ethel! You could open a dancing
school!"

"Dancing?" I caught my breath.
The word had seemed to strike a
piercing shaft of terror into my
heart.

"Yes — you've always been such a
good dancer," he said quickly. "And
you always loved it so."

"Did I?" I asked, and then the
brief, sharp panic was gone and I
was recalling proms in college, with
the music lifting me on my toes
and sweeping me around the room",
from one partner's arms to an-
other's. "Why, yes, that's right," I
murmured. "I'd forgotten. It seems
so long ago."

"But you do remember things
that happened to you in college,
don't you Ethel?" Dr. Chase asked
sharply. "And before that, when
you were a little girl?"

"Oh, yes!" I said. "Of course I
do. I remember everything!"

Something made me say it so
vehemently — as if not remembering
were a crime.

"Well," Dr. Chase said briskly,
getting up to go, "it's all settled,
then. There's a hall downtown and
I'll see about renting it for you. You
can go on living here, with Mary
Murphy to cook your meals and
take care of the house."

"It's terribly kind of you to take
so much trouble," I said.

"Nonsense! It's self-interest, as
much as anything else. I live here
in Gray fields too — "

Grayfields! Why, that was on
Long Island. I caught at the scrap
of information; I hadn't wanted to
admit that I didn't even know the
name of the town I was living in
now.

" — and I have two young devils
who ought to learn how to dance,"
the doctor was continuing. "They'll
be your first pupils."

He left, and Mary Murphy served
my dinner, and the pale dusk of
spring came down over the little
house and the garden. I sat by a
window, listening to Mary's heavy
steps in the kitchen. I was content
to do nothing until it was time to go
to bed. That other Ethel Windsor,
that girl who had gone to college
and had friends and enjoyed herself
so much at dances — she seemed very
far away to me now, really like
another person entirely, someone I
had read about or watched in a
movie. I couldn't find in myself any
of the zest for living which she had
had in such abundance.

I must have been really ill, I
thought, although I was perfectly
well now, except for this strange
lassitude, this unwillingness to let
my mind go into the past or specu-
late on what had happened to me
during that blank gap in my
memory.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRBOR

It was easy to build up a clien-
tele as Grayfields' only dancing
teacher. There were many mod-
erately wealthy families living in
or near the village, and apparently
they all wanted their children to
learn how to dance. I kept the
studio open every afternoon until
six; then I would close it, tuck the
key into my bag and walk alone
through the busy, cheerful streets.
In the evenings, after supper, I read
until bedtime; in the mornings I
worked in my garden.

MARY MURPHY was worried be-
cause I never went anywhere,
never saw anyone but Dr. Chase on
his casual, friendly visits. She used
to scold me: "Sure, it's too young
and pretty you are to be sitting in
the house each night. You should
be meeting friends, having a good
time and going to dances with some
fine young man."

"I dance for a living, Mary." I
spoke sharply, with that unexpected
pang of fright that came to me now
and then, and Mary fell silent.

But late one afternoon, just as
Tommy Collins was finishing his les-
son, his older brother Bill came to
the hall to take him home. Bill
was tall and broad-shouldered, and

"Don't you see?" Bill cried. "You
were afraid to remember — but that's
all over now. Darling, you're free!"

when he complimented me on
Tommy's progress I felt for the first
time a faint stirring of that other
Ethel Windsor who had laughed up
into the eyes of the men she knew.

"No wonder Tommy doesn't mind
dancing lessons any more," Bill said.
"You know he's fallen in love with
you."

Tommy blushed and stuck out his
lower lip. "Aw, I have not," he
protested.

"Then you haven't got very good
taste after all," Bill said, not taking
his eyes off my face. "I wonder —
couldn't you give me some lessons
too, Miss Windsor?"

"I'm sorry — I only take children
as my pupils," I said nervously.

"Make an exception in my case —
please!" he begged. "I'm a lawyer,
and all lawyers really ought to
know how to dance."

I opened my mouth to refuse. And
then I hesitated, because suddenly I
realized that I was afraid — afraid to
feel a man's arms around me, afraid
to give myself to the rhythm and
movement of dancing with a man.

I didn't want to be afraid. I
wouldn't be afraid!

"All right," I said. "But I warn
you, I'm a severe mistress!"

"I'll work hard to please, ma'am,"
he said gravely. "Can't we have the
first lesson now?"

"Right---right now?" I stammered.

"Sure. Tommy won't mind wait-
ing."

"Why, I — I suppose so," I said.
Hesitantly, I went to the phono-
graph and selected a slow fox-trot,
wishing already that I had refused
to give him lessons.

And yet — except for a tremor that
ran over me when his arm first went
around my waist — at was not so bad.
He really was a very poor dancer,
and that helped me. There was
none of the sensation of floating
that I remembered from the past; it
was almost just another lesson.
Almost — not quite.

Bill had taken five lessons when
he asked me to go with him to a
dance at the country club.

"Oh, no!" I spoke without even
thinking, out of instinctive knowl-
edge that acceptance would be
perilous.

"But why not?" he asked, a little
hurt. "I want to show off my danc-
ing ability. And," in a lower tone,
"I want to show you off, too. I want
people to say, 'How did that goof
ever persuade such a beautiful girl
to go out with him?' "

I twisted my hands together. "I
never go out — I couldn't — "

But what was there to be afraid
of? Surely, nothing. Logic told me
that.

Bill was watching me narrowly.

He could see that I was afraid — and
I had promised myself I would
never be afraid again.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Sorry I'm
acting so foolishly, I mean. Of
course I'll go to the dance with you.
I'd love to."

When Saturday night came, and
we stood together at the entrance
to the big, shining dance floor, hear-
ing the music that beckoned us on,
I was glad that I had been able to
conquer that first senseless fear.
Because it was fun — fun to be with
Bill, to watch his lips moving
soundlessly and so' seriously while
he counted the steps as I'd taught
him to. After one circuit of the
hall he stopped counting and said
amazedly, "Why — it's easy . . . isn't
it? Easy, with you."

He held me more tightly, more
confidently, and suddenly he said,
"Ethel! There's something I want
to say. Maybe it'll be easier here,
while we're dancing. . . . Don't you
know that I love you?"

I caught my breath. "Love? Love's
something I don't know much about,
Bill. I've . . . never been in love."

"Couldn't you love me?"

"Love's so strange, Bill," I said.
"I don't know — perhaps I can't ever
be in love. Perhaps I don't know
how. Don't let's talk about it."

"But I want to talk about it," Bill-
said softly. The music changed to a
sensuous waltz, and he whispered
into my ear. "I want to dance and
dance, and tell you how much I love
you, while we're dancing."

The music was lifting me, crad-
ling me in long rippling waves of
sound, swinging me up and away
until the room tilted and grew
misty. Other whirling, dancing fig-
ures spun past, but they were only
shadows; the music and I and the
man who held me in his arms were
the only realities.

I heard my own voice coming
from far away. "Someone made
love to me, once," it was saying,
"while we were dancing. . . .Or
perhaps I dreamed it."

"You dreamed it, sweet," he said.
"And the boy was me, and the girl
was you, and the boy asked the girl
to marry him. . . ."

Momentarily, the whirling shadows
took on shape again. I looked at his
face and saw that it was Bill's, and
I fought to separate reality and
dream. "But I've heard all this
before, somewhere," I faltered.
"And I've said all the answers."

Bill stared, and then frowned in
concern. "Wait a minute! Some-
thing's wrong — let's stop dancing.
It's stuffy in here — "

"No, no!" I cried, holding him
closer while the music picked me up
again. (Continued on page 66)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHROR

'fa/l&ts

Still as handsome and maritally free as he was when he was thrilling
the Jack Benny audiences with his tenor voice, Frank Parker is now
bringing beautiful music into your homes every weekday afternoon, at
3:15 P.M., E.D.T., on the Golden Treasury of Song program, over CBS.
Frank's serious about his music, and is planning a fall concert tour.
His current hobby is golf and last summer he played in the California
Open, leading pro-amateur tourney of the West Coast. When in New York,
Frank lives high up in a bachelor penthouse overlooking the East River.

I DREAM OF A WALTZ IN 'PAREE'

Words by
Guido Vandt

CHORUS

("h'argent fait le bonheur" From the film "Le Billet de Mille")

Beautiful new hit tune featured by Frank Parker
on his CBS program, Golden Treasury of Song

Music by

Charles Tucker

Arr. by Colin O'More

DREAM

LLJ J- J^

OF A WALTZ IN

PA - REE

That

^v'i i

* .f

£s

¥^-»r

* *r J

•Tti

FT?

T-

night when you first danc'd with me,

c w

Though man

y were

there ro - mane

ing too, Still I

was a - lone with

s: p

zspr

£i5S

rr^

Lpr

jfc

SF^

rCtl

you, on-ly you ; When I DREAM OF A WALTZ IN PA - REE

a==

r te

* p

"S~

Copi/riphl, 1934, Editions Max Eschig, Paris Copyright, 1941, Editions Max Eschig, Paris

V. S. A. performing rights controlled by Associated Music Publishers, Inc.

* i 0£

^rw

That same ma-gic steals o - ver me

Darl-ing,howI

fcj

?i r *

J..Lj- J>

^ ><Q ■-

fct^

•y «hj

F" ZZs

r-*

m=m

•r

^ r pp

Z2I

P p ir r y |kf

wish I could be once a - gain in Pa - ree, But you're on - ly

d=iS

Sp^f

-r

f P br i

ri n

i=r

Two hearts that had been driven apart by jealousy
find in another's tragedy the complete understand-
ing that must come to every successful marriage

THE newspapers, at least, were
grateful for the Farrell murder
case.
They told and retold in detail
everything - that was known about
the events leading up to the mo-
ment when police arrived to find
Veronica Farrell standing beside
the body of her husband. They
found it interesting that Veronica
and Jim had been married before,
divorced, and remarried only a
week before his death. They found
it even more interesting, and per-
haps significant, that on the night
of the murder Veronica had been
dining with Dr. Gerald Malone —
the same Dr. Malone, it was re-
called, with whom she had been
marooned overnight on a Georgia-
coast island a few months before.
Wasn't it odd, they hinted, that Dr.
Malone's wife had recently gone to
Chicago, where she was living with
her aunt and refusing to see re-
porters?

On the day following the mur-
der, readers were told that police
were convinced no one had visited
Jim Farrell in the Washington
Square apartment that evening. He
had gone out to dine alone, re-
turned about eight, and had re-
ceived a telephone call that came
through the apartment switchboard.
Mrs. Farrell had come home a few
minutes after ten; that time was
established by the elevator opera-
tor who took her up to the apart-
ment on the second floor. But she

Ficiionlzcd from the radio serial heard
dally at 2 P.M.. E.D.T.. over CBS (re-
broadcast at 3:1 5 P.M., Pacific Time I and
sponsored by Post Toastles. Photographic
Illustration posed by Elizabeth Roller as
Ann and Alan Bunco as Doctor Malone.

had not telephoned Malone — and
it was considered odd that her first
call should be to him, rather than
to the elevator boy or police — until
ten-thirty. She explained this by
saying that she had not known her
husband was home; it was not until
she went into the bedroom that she
found him lying there with a knife
through his heart.

There was the added testimony
of a neighbor who, the night before,
had heard the Farrells quarreling
bitterly.

Jerry Malone went through these
hours of the first questioning in a
kind of drugged stupor. It wasn't
possible for him to believe that
anything like this could happen to
people he knew. Only gradually did
he come to realize that it was hap-
pening, as well, to him — that he, ac-
cording to the newspapers, was one
of the chief figures in a drama of
hatred and jealousy.

It was Ann who brought the
realization home.

She called him on the telephone
from Chicago the day after the
murder. "Jerry," she said, "I'm
coming back."

Only twenty-four hours ago he
would have given half his life to
hear her say this. Now he burst
out, "No, Ann! You mustn't! I don't
want them hounding you . . . the
reporters and detectives. . . ."

She laughed a little hysterically.
"The reporters've been here, too.
They want to know so many things,
Jerry — if you and I had separated,
if we'd quarreled over Veronica—
I was fool enough to see the first
two, but then I wouldn't see any
more. But they stay outside the
apartment house, waiting . . ."

He clenched his teeth in futile
anger. "Dearest — "

"Jerry — no matter what hap-
pened last night, I know you didn't
have anything to do with it."

But behind the brave words he
heard the smallest taint of doubt,
and he knew she was talking to
convince herself as much as him.

"You don't think Veronica really
killed him!"

"I don't know what to think,
Jerry. You're so far away and I'm
so confused."

RADIO AND TELEVISION 1VIIHBOB

"But first," Jerry said,
holding Ann's hands mpre
tightly, "we're going
away, all by ourselves."

"Think just this, then— that I
love you and want you with me.
But you mustn't come back until
all this is over. I won't have you
mixed up in it any more than you
are already."

Then, driven by anxiety, she
asked the question she hated to ask.
"Jerry, what did happen?"

"I don't know," he groaned. "I'm
only sure Veronica is telling the
truth. She was sorry she'd mar-
ried Farrell again. He'd made a
lot of promises he obviously didn't

OCTOBER, 1941

intend to keep. But she would never
have murdered him."

A silence. Then — "Won't it
look much worse if I stay away?
If I came back, wouldn't that prove
there was nothing to all the things
they've been hinting — that you and
Veronica were — were in love and
that — that — " She stopped, unable
to go on; he knew she was crying.

"No," he insisted. "That won't
be necessary." But in his heart he
was aware that things were exactly
as Ann had said. Her continued

absence would look bad for Ve-
ronica. Yet if she returned, and
if it came to a trial in which Ann
was called to testify, what could
she say? It was true that she had
left him because of Veronica. She
might trust in him now, believe in
his love, but she had not before.
If they put Ann on the stand, and
she told the truth, it would be
more damaging to Veronica than
if she stayed away.

But perhaps, he told himself after
he and Ann (Continued on page 61)

"But first," Jerry said,
holding Ann's hands more
tightly, "we're going
away, all by ourselves."

Two hearts that had been driven apart by jealousy
find in another's tragedy the complete understand-
ing that must come to every successful marriage

THE newspapers, at least, were
grateful for the Farrell murder
case.
They told and retold in detail
everything that was known about
the events leading up to the mo-
ment when police arrived to find
Veronica Farrell standing beside
the body of her husband. They
found it interesting that Veronica
and Jim had been married before,
divorced, and remarried only a
week before his death. They found
it even more interesting, and per-
haps significant, that on the night
of the murder Veronica had been
dining with Dr. Gerald Malone —
the same Dr. Malone, it was re-
called, with whom she had been
marooned overnight on a Georgia-
coast island a few months before.
Wasn't it odd, they hinted, that Dr.
Malone's wife had recently gone to
Chicago, where she was living with
her aunt and refusing to see re-
porters?

Ficfionized from the radio serial heard
dally at 2 P.M., E.O.T.. aver CBS (re-
broadcast at 3:15 P.M., Pacific Time) and
sponsored by Post Toasties. Photographic
Illustration posed by Elisabeth Keller as
Ann and Alan lunce as Doctor Malone.
32

There was the added testimony
of a neighbor who, the night before,
had heard the Farrells quarreling
bitterly.

It was Ann who brought the
realization home.

She called him on the telephone
from Chicago the day after the
murder. "Jerry," she said, "I'm
coming back."

Only twenty-four hours ago he
would have given half his life to
hear her say this. Now he burst
out, "No, Ann! You mustn't! I don't
want them hounding you . . . the
reporters and detectives. . . ."

She laughed a little hysterically.
"The reporters've been here, too.
They want to know so many things,
Jerry — if you and I had separated,
if we'd quarreled over Veronica —
I was fool enough to see the first
two, but then I wouldn't see any
more. But they stay outside the
apartment house, waiting . . ."

He clenched his teeth in futile
anger. "Dearest — "

"Jerry— no matter what hap-
pened last night, I know you didn't
have anything to do with it."

But behind the brave words he
heard the smallest taint of doubt,
and he knew she was talking to
convince herself as much as him.

"You don't think Veronica really
killed him!"

"I don't know what to think,
Jerry. You're so far away and I'm
so confused."

RADIO AND TELEVISION

Think just this, then— that I
™e you and want you with me.
B"1 you mustn't come back until
™ this is over. I won't have you
™xed up in it any more than you
are already."

a 2h.en' ^iven by anxiety, she
..,* fte Question she hated to ask.

"I i\ ^hat did haPPen?"
onlv kr>ow," he groaned. "I'm

truth SUFe Veronica is telling the
tied ip She was sorry she'd mar-
lot nf e11 again- He'd made a
Promises he obviously didn't

intend to keep. But she would never

have murdered him."

A silence. Then- "Wont it

look much worse if I stay away?

Si came back, wouldn't that prove
here was nothing to all the things
Sve been hinting-that you and

Veronica were-were m love and
that-that-" She stopped unable
to eo on- he knew she was crying.

lO go on, "<~ "That wont

"No," he insisted. lhat wo
be necessary." But in his heart he

was aware that *«*£?ZS£*
as Ann had said. Her

absence would look bad for Ve-
ronica. Yet if she returned, and
if it came to a trial in which Ann
was called to testify, what could
she say? It was true that she had
left him because of Veronica. She
might trust in him now, believe m
his love, but she had not before.
If they put Ann on the stand, and
she told the truth, it would be
more damaging to Veronica than
if she stayed away.

But perhaps, he told himself after
he and Ann (Continued on page 61)
33

As Peggy came out of the doctor's office, all she could see were the bills
piled so high in the desk drawer at home. How could she ever tell Bill?

'HE was a small, blonde girl in
a neat, plain dress. She was pretty
in the typical way American girls
are pretty — young, almost twenty-
two, large eyes, full generous
mouth, exceptionally fine legs. She
sat gingerly on the edge of the
office sofa, as if she expected the
receptionist to disapprove of taking
up more space. She held her hands
tightly clenched in her lap.

"The doctor will see you, now,"
the receptionist said, smiling the
pat, professional smile of reassur-
ance.

"Thank you," the girl said.

The doctor was a large man and
very round. Everything about him
seemed round, his face, his body,
everything but his hands, which
were long and sure and quick. He
told her not to be afraid. He told
her that this sort of thing had been
going on since the beginning of
time — not to worry, not to be
frightened.

"Go home and tell your husband,"
the doctor said, when she was ready
to leave. "He'll understand." The
doctor and the receptionist ex-
changed smiles. "And be happy.
That is very important."

She was out on the street, now.
It didn't take long. Yet, it changed
your whole life. It was really a
very simple statement. "You're go-
ing to have a baby," the doctor had

said. It was simple, really, to say
it. Just as simple as saying, "It's
going to rain tomorrow." A profes-
sional observation. A statement of
fact. But it was she. She was go-
ing to have a baby. She. Peggy
Connant. A baby. It kept going
around and around in her head.

Bill would want her to take a cab
home, but she decided to walk. She
had a lot of things to think about.
She walked along slowly, looking
into the store windows, but not see-
ing anything, looking at the faces
as they went by her, but not really
seeing them.

Bills. Bills arid a baby. She
could see the bills plainly, stacked in
the desk drawer. She could see
Bill's face when he took them out.
Laundry, grocery, rent, gas and
light. And Bill's face, drawn and
a little tense, his dark hair rumpled,
his collar open, his shirt wrinkled
and soiled after a day's work, his
serious, warm brown eyes troubled.
Bills. A baby. You know we can't
afford a baby. She could almost
hear him say it. "A baby's out of
the question."

FROM A RADIO BROADCAST
BY ARCH OBOLER

Illustrations by Marsh

"Hey! Watch where you're goin'!"
An arm pulled her back on the curb.

"Thanks," Peggy Connant said.

"You all right?" the voice asked,
the voice belonging to a man with a
brief case under his arm.

"Yes," Peggy said, "I'm all right."

"Traffic is bad this time of day.
People gotta watch where they're
crossin'."

And you have to watch every-
thing, Peggy. We can't afford an-
other thing. A baby, Peggy thought.
That will set us back five years.
Will he be angry? Of course, he
will. There'll be nurses and doc-
tors and the hospital and he won't
be able to breathe, he won't be
able to smile. But she'd have to be
happy. The doctor had said that.
"Be happy."

"Are you happy?" Bill had asked
that day in the park. They hadn't
been married very long, when he
said that.

"Uh-huh, I'm happy," she had
said. She was, too. She had never
known she could be so gloriously
happy. They weren't doing any-
thing, just sitting there and looking
at each other. It was Bill's day off
and they were in the park and the
sun was warm on their backs. Bill
had his coat off and he was lying
on his side, propped up on his el-
bow.

"So I'm not making my five bucks,

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

today," Bill had grinned. "But I'm
happy. That's the important thing."

"I'm happy, too, Bill."

"Are you? Honest, Peg?"

"Of course."

"What if I hadn't gone to that
dance?"

"Don't say things like that, Bill!"

"But, I did." His face was warm
with happiness. "And bang! You
hit me!" He rolled over on the
grass. "Like a ton of bricks — and
bang! We're married. It's won-
derful!"

Her mother had objected so. She
thought of her mother, as she walked
along towards home. She won-
dered, what her mother would say,
if she were still alive. Would she
still be saying Bill didn't make
enough money? That's what she'd
said when she heard Peggy and Bill
were getting married.

"Mark my words," her mother
had said, "he'll never make a good
living for you. No drive, no ambi-
tion. A worthless young man. Now,
stop crying and listen to me, Peggy.
Someday, when you have children
of your own, you'll understand."

Understand? "I do understand,
mother," Peggy thought, as she
stopped on a corner to wait for a
light. "Bill is aU right. He's all
right — it's just that he used to laugh.
He used to laugh all the time."

How he had laughed and sung
and acted crazy and wonderful that
day they were driving out to Law-
renceville to get married! The lit-
tle puddle jumper was hitting forty,
but it seemed to be creeping along
and Bill was singing, "We're going
to get married. We're going to get
married!" over and over again and
his words, those crazy words,
seemed to go right through her.

"Bill," she had said, "they'll think
you've been drinking."

"I have!" Bill had shouted. "Four
cokes, a double malted, two kisses
and a marriage license."

She had laughed, too, and it hadn't
made sense. Then, it had started
to rain and she wanted to leave
the top down. She wanted to feel
the rain in her face. She had felt
as though she were flying, soaring
high. And the things he said were
like music and the rain was the
background, its incessant beat the
counterpoint.

She would never forget how he
had looked, standing there beside
her, serious and happy and a little
scared and proud. And then he was
her husband, this funny fellow in
the blue serge suit with the warm,
tender eyes that seemed to say, "All
our life we'll be together, darling,
and you'll never regret it. You never
will." And the eyes were promising
and the (Continued on page 69)

OCTOBEH, 1941

Bill was frightened. "Peg dear,
what's the matter? Why do you
look like that? Say something!"

«^L

I! li ii i

Christy Allen Cameron became Phillip's wife in a surprise elopement which occurred on the eve of the day she was to
have married Mark Scott. Her sensitive nature has ever since made her feel guilty for jilting Mark, although he
has repeatedly assured her he would not have wished to hold her to her promise. Recently, when she learned of the exis-
tence of Phillip's son by a former marriage, she left him and went to New York, where she is living and working now.

(Played by Claudia Morgan)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

i
{

Owf

{

Presenting, in special Living

Portraits, one of radio's most

appealing couples, Christy and

Phillip Cameron of Against the x.

Storm, by Sandra Michael. See &

them here and listen to them &
on NBC-Red weekdays at 3:00,
E.D.T., sponsored by Ivory Soap

Photos by Ray Lee Jackson. XPC

Phillip Cameron is a brilliant young lawyer — charming, handsome and
very much in love with Christy, but with a vein of irresponsibility
in his character. He was married once before, to Lucretia Hale, and
last fall learned that he had a son, born after Lucretia's divorce.
He did not tell Christy of the boy's existence for some time, and
when he finally did she was so hurt by his long silence that she
turned against him. Now he is finding what happiness he can in
learning to know his son, who lives with Lucretia and her new
husband, Pascal Tyler, and is fonder of Pascal than of his own father.

octobeb, 1341

(Played by Alexander Scovrhy)

THE COOKING CORNER SUGGESTS

For a quick luncheon dish, or
for that novelty to make Sun-
day morning breakfast exciting,
banana ham rolls are just the
thing, served with corn bread.

A WELL-KNOWN New York
department store has as its
slogan the phrase "It's smart
to be thrifty" and I think we could
look for a long time before finding a
better motto to tack up on our
kitchen walls for our guidance in
planning meals. It is smart to be
thrifty, and if we are really smart
our thrift can and should result in
economical meals which are as nu-
tritious and appealing as our more
expensive ones.

This is especially true in the case
of meat, usually the most expensive
single item on our budgets. Meat
prices, of course, vary just as other
food prices do, but there is no get-
ting away from the fact that the sir-
loins, the loin chops and the prime
roasts are always more costly than
other cuts, though by no means
more nourishing and flavorsome.
Our economy, therefore, depends
not only on buying beef, lamb, veal
and pork when they are at their
lowest prices, but in building our
menus around recipes utilizing the
cheaper cuts. For this reason I am
bringing you this month's recipes
based on these less expensive meats.
They will not only cut down on your
budget but they will add variety to
your menus and laurels to your
reputation for being a good cook.
First let's consider chops. From

time immemorial loin chops have
been considered the choicest chops,
but the lamb shoulder chops, illus-
trated here with cauliflower and
bacon curls, are just as succulent
and they are much more economi-
cal. Pan broil or broil them, as you
prefer, and make the bacon curls by
winding each slice of bacon around
a fork or spoon handle, fastening
with a toothpick then cooking in the
ordinary way. For an interesting
flavor experiment, season the chops
with a bit of curry powder before
broiling or dust the cauliflower
lightly just before serving with
ground mace.

I don't believe there is a man
alive who won't go for baked spare-
ribs, veal pot roast and a really good
spaghetti and meat ball combina-
tion, so here are recipes for all of
these.

Baked Spareribs

4 lbs. fresh spareribs

2 tsps. salt

% tsp. pepper

Vz tsp. sage (optional)

Have spareribs cut into two sec-
tions as illustrated. Wipe with a
damp cloth, rub with salt, pepper
and sage and place in roasting pan,

BY HATE SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Kate Smith's vacationing from her Friday
night CBS show, but you con stiff hear
her on her daily talks over CBS at 12
noon, E.D.T., sponsored by General Foods.

One of the cheapest and most
delicious dishes you can make
is that ever popular spaghetti
with meat ball sauce. Add a
vegetable and you have a meal.

using rack so that ribs will not come
into contact with fat during cooking.
Bake, covered, at 350 degrees F. un-
til tender (about 2V2 hours), bast-
ing two or three times. Remove
cover during last half hour of cook-
ing so ribs will brown. Serve with
baked potatoes.

Veal Pot Roast

4 lbs. rump of veal
3 tbls. shortening

1 clove garlic, minced
3 medium onions, chopped

Vz cup chopped celery leaves

2 bay leaves
6 whole cloves
8 whole peppercorns
2 tsps. salt
1 wineglass sherry or water

Melt shortening, add garlic and a
small quantity of celery leaves and
onion. Brown veal in the melted
shortening, adding more shortening
if necessary to brown meat thor-
oughly on all sides. Place veal in
heavy kettle or Dutch oven, cover
with remaining celery and onion,
add remaining ingredients and cook,
covered, at low temperature until
tender (about 3 hours), turning oc-
casionally so that meat will be
cooked evenly and adding more li-
quid if necessary. In a separate pan,
cook together small onions, carrots,
potatoes and celery until tender,
drain and serve with the veal.
Combine the liquid in which they
were cooked with the liquid from

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

/0&&.

Cut down on expense and give
your family a treat, too, es-
pecially the men. They'll go
for this platter of baked
spareribs and baked potatoes.

f /

Whe* shopping for lamb chops do you always choose the loin cuts?
Try the shoulder chops next time. They're delicious and economical
too. Above, an attractive dish with cauliflower and bacon curls

the veal to make gravy, thickening
with flour to the desired consistency.
If you prefer, instead of the mixed
vegetables, serve with the veal
individual vegetable molds.

Vegetable Molds

1 cup cooked rice •
1 cup drained canned corn
Salt and pepper to taste
Baby lima beans or other
vegetable

Combine rice and corn, add sea-
sonings and press into well buttered
individual ring molds. Place molds
in shallow pan of water, bake at
350 degrees F. until firm (20 to 30
minutes). Fill centers of molds with
baby lima beans, peas, diced carrots
or diced beets.

Meat Ball Sauce for Spaghetti

1 lb. ground chuck beef
1 clove garlic, minced

3 onions

4 stalks celery with leaves
1 green pepper

1 can tomato paste

1 can tomatoes

1 can mushrooms with liquid
% tsp. salt
Ya tsp. pepper

1 bay leaf

1 tsp. dried basil
Va tsp. dried oregano

1 wineglass sherry (optional)
Olive oil

Season ground meat with half

the salt and pepper, form into small

balls and brown in olive oil. While

they are browning in another pot

OCTOBER, 1941

cook the chopped onion, green pep-
per and celery and the garlic until
tender but not brown. For both the
meat balls and the onion mixture
use sufficient olive oil to prevent
burning but not enough to make
mixture greasy. When onion mix-
ture is tender, add remaining in-
gredients and simmer all together
for 45 minutes.

Banana ham rolls are just the
thing for a hasty luncheon dish or
for Sunday morning breakfast, and
they require only a few minutes to
prepare.

Banana Ham Rolls

6 bananas

6 slices boiled ham

2 tbls. soft butter

2 tbls. prepared mustard

Mix mustard and butter together.
Wrap each banana in a slice of ham,
fasten with a toothpick and bake
at 350 degrees until bananas can be
pierced easily with a fork (about 30
minutes) adding more butter if they
tend to stick to the pan. Place under
broiler flame for a moment to brown
if desired. This dish can be made
more elaborate by pouring over the
banana ham rolls, before baking,
one cup of white sauce to which has
been added Vz cup grated cheese.
Prepared in this way and served
with hot rolls or corn bread it is a
delicious Sunday night supper treat.

Would you like to take ad-
vantage of the low summer
prices of fresh fruits and vege-
tables by putting them up for
use during the coming winter?
Home canning, a fascinating as
well as practical hobby, is easy
when you follow the advice of
professional canners as given
in the booklet, "Ten Easy Les-
sons in Home Canning." This
booklet, giving directions for
putting up fruits, vegetables,
jellies, juices and even meats
and fish, will be sent to you,
free of charge, together with
"Let's Eat," which contains 300
new and delightful recipes.
These valuable guides to bet-
ter and more economical eat-
ing will be mailed without
cost to you if you will address
a request for them to Kate
Smith, Radio Mirror, 122 East
42nd St., New York, N. Y.

They were just a few miles out of Manao Harbor.
Kent turned to the boy: "Well, Jimmy, we're fi-
nally on our way to Dead Man's Island!" "Gee, Mr.
Kent," said Jimmv. "do you think we'll get a story?"

"Jimmy, Jimmy! Where are you?" Superman made
a quick dive . . . "Got him! Poor kid, he's as limp
as a rag." . . . Superman's muscles tensed as he
wrenched the shells apart to free Edwards' foot

CLARK KENT, star reporter of the Daily Planet, and
Jimmy Olsen, the paper's red-headed copy-boy, stood
together in the hold of the small motorboat. They were
just a few miles out of Manao Harbor, the little port jutting
out into the Caribbean Sea, south of Cuba. Kent turned
to the boy:

"Well, Jimmy, we're finally on our way to Dead Man's
Island!"

"Gee, Mr. Kent, do you think we'll really get a story
there?"

"Don't see why not, Jimmy — the way the natives talk
about it, we should find something special. Lucky thing
I got that old fisherman to sell me his boat. Never saw
anything like it. Until I found him every other native
I asked to take us out here acted like he was scared to
death — said nobody ever got within 500 yards of the island
and lived."

"Golly— think we'll make it?"

"Sure, Jimmy — don't worry. We'll get there — and I have
an idea we'll solve the mystery of Dead Man's Island!"

The twenty mile run to the Island didn't take them
long. The sun was just sinking when Kent skilfully
maneuvered the small craft to within a few feet of the
rocks close to shore. Suddenly, the wheel spun wildly.

"Great Scott, Jimmy! the rudder won't respond! We're
headed straight for the rocks! Look out! We're going
to crash! JUMP JIMMY!"

But even as Kent shouted his warning, the boat hit
the jagged reef and crashed into a thousand bits. Then:

"Jimmy, Jimmy! Where are you? He's disappeared! —
No! There he is — sinking under the water — must have
struck his head — this is where Superman takes over! —
There — a quick dive — got him! Poor kid — he's limp as a
rag. But he'll be all right once I get him to shore."

Safely on land, Superman quickly resumed his guise of
Clark Kent. Jimmy had just regained consciousness when
they heard footsteps, heralded by crackling twigs, coming
from the forest just off the shore. Hurriedly they con-
cealed themselves in the thick underbrush and watched,
wide-eyed, as a woman walked slowly down the path. As
she came close, Kent stepped out. Pretending not to notice
her fright, he told her of the boat wreck, introduced him-
self and called Jimmy out. Calmly, then, she spoke in a
husky, guttural voice:

"My name is liana. My brother, Boris, and I live
alone on this island. Come with me. You must be
tired and wet — I'll give you dry clothes."

They followed her closely up the path until, astonished,
they saw before them a huge gray, stone castle. liana ig-
nored their questions as she turned the heavy door latch.
Silently, they followed her up the steps and into a large
barren room. Promising to bring them food and clothes,
she left. Kent and Jimmy waited a moment and then, tip-
toeing, followed her down the hall. They watched her
enter another door. Quietly they crept up to it and list-
ened. A man was speaking:

"You heard what I said — get rid of them! They can never
leave here alive and tell what they've seen. It is my
order — Go!"

The reporter and the boy ran back to their room and,
masking their anxiety, waited until liana reappeared. Her
words stumbled over each other.

"You must leave here at once — your lives are in
danger. Quick, out of the house. You will find a motor-
boat hidden in a cave near the beach. But, above all, Boris
must not see you!"

They followed her out and down {Continued on page 73)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

(tem?note

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a feminine charm, a fascinating brilliance and color that catch a man's eye
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like popping corks, quick music and the swish of dancing feet. And no other
polish can match Dura-Gloss for the rich warm color, the amazing luster and
life it gives the nails.

THE DIFFERENCE between NAIL POLISHES

Dura-Gloss is made according to an UN-
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they find nowhere else, ENDURING

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at beauty counters
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FouDded i>y K. T. Boynoldi

FOR THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FINGERNAILS IN THE WORLD

OCTOBER, 1941

^t>Mufa//

You seldom hear Mort Lewis on the air — but he's the guiding spirit of that unique
program, Behind the Mike, which brings you the whole fascinating world of radio.

ON THE AIR TODAY

Behind the Mike, on NBC-Blue at 4: 30
P.M., E.D.T., every Sunday afternoon.

For a long time radio people just went
on presenting variety shows, musical
concerts, comedians, dramatic serials and
quiz sessions. They were so busy putting
entertainment on the air it never occurred
to them that they themselves were part of
a vastly entertaining industry. Then along
came Mort Lewis, the man behind Behind
the Mike, with the idea that radio itself
and the things that go on behind the
scenes in radio would make a good series
of broadcasts. NBC told Mort to go ahead
and try it, and Behind the Mike is the
happy result.

Behind the Mike brings you all the
interesting things that happen in the great
world of radio. A typical broadcast might
consist of an interview with a famous
star, a dramatization of some thrilling
backstage incident, and a reminiscence of
something that happened years ago, when
radio was young. For instance, did you
know that the first broadcast from the
Metropolitan Opera House took place in
1910, when Enrico Caruso and Emmy
Destin sang an aria backstage? Or that
the first sports broadcast was in 1907,
when Lee DeForest, the famous inventor,
described a yacht race — and was heard
only by his assistant, fourteen miles away?
Or that in the 1920's, when a playlet was
being broadcast, it was quite the usual
thing for the orchestra that was next on
the program to move into the studio be-
fore the playlet was finished, making a

lot of noise and completely ruining the
actors' lines?

Perhaps the most heart-warming story
Behind the Mike ever put on the air was
told by Bob Gunderson, a blind man who
makes a hobby of teaching other blind
persons how to make and operate amateur
radio sets. Bob told how he heard of a
man who was dying of tuberculosis. This
man said he didn't even want to live any
more. Bob traveled to see him, and sug-
gested that he learn to be an amateur
radio operator, with Bob's help. "Why?"
the invalid asked. "Because if you do,
you'll find friends all over the world, and
be able to talk to them every day," Bob
said, "instead of sitting here in your
home wishing someone would come to see
you." Doubtfully, the sick man agreed to
try it, and the two of them — the blind
man and the invalid — constructed a radio
broadcasting set. That was six years ago,
and today the invalid is greatly improved
in health and is very happy with his new
interest in life.

Mort Lewis, who writes and produces
Behind the Mike, is heard on the air only
occasionally, but just the same he's the
most important person connected with the
show — even more important than Graham
McNamee, the master of ceremonies.
Mort's small and nervous, recently got
married, collects Wedgwood china and
phonograph records, takes regular jiu
jitsu and riding lessons, and also writes
the comedy scripts for the Molasses and
January show.

For Eastern Standard Time or Central Daylight
Time, subtract one hour from Eastern Daylight Time.

DATES TO REMEMBER

August 31: Walter Winchell's back on his NBC program tonight at 9:00 after a
vacation. . . . And Fibber McGee's Gildersleeve starts his own NBC-Red show at 6:30.

September 7: Welcome back another returned prodigal — two of them, in fact, Edgar
Bergen and Charlie McCarthy on NBC-Red at 8: 00.

-te

■ Oi

S<UJ

Eastern Daylight Time

8:00
8:00
8:00

8:30
8:30

CBS: News
NBC-Blue: News
NBC-Red: Organ Recital

NBC-Blue: Tone Pictures
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

7:00
7:00

9:00
9:00

~BS: News of Europe
NBC: News from Europe

7:15
7:15
7:15

9:15
9:15
9:15

CBS: From the Organ Loft
NBC-Blue: White Rabbit Line
NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

7:30

9:30

NBC-Red: Words and Music

8:00
8:00
8:00

10:00
10:00
10:00

CBS: Church of the Air
NBC-Blue: Walter Patterson
NBC-Red: Radio Pulpit

8:15

10:15

NBC-Blue: Primrose String Quartet

8:30
8:30

10:30
10:30

CBS: Wings Over Jordan
NBC-Blue: Southernaires

9:00
9:00

11:00
11:00

CBS: News
NBC-Blue: News

7:30
7:30

9:30
9:30

11:30
11:30

CBS: What's New at the Zoo
NBC- Blue: Treasure Trails of Song

8:00
8:00

10:00
10:00

12:00
12:00

CBS: Syncopation Piece
NBC-Red: Emma Otero

8:15

10:15

12:15

NBC-Blue I'm an American

8:30
8:30
8:30

10:30
10:30
10:30

12:30
12:30
12:30

CBS: Salt Lake City Tabernacle
NBC-Blue: Radio City Music Hall
NBC-Red Down South

9:00
9:00

11:00
11:00

1:00
1:00

CBS: Church of the Air
NBC-Red: Silver Strings

9:30
9:30

11:30
11:30

1:30
1:30

CBS: You Decide

NBC-Blue: Matinee with Lytell

10:00
10:00
10:00

12:00
12:00
12:00

2:00
2:00
2:00

CBS: Invitation to Learning
NBC-Blue: Hidden History
NBC- Red NBC String Symphony

10:15

12:15

2:15

NBC-Blue. Foreign Policy Assn.

10:30
10:30
10:30

12:30
12:30
12:30

2:30
2:30
2:30

CBS: News

NBC-Blue: Tapestry Musicale
NBC-Red: University of Chicago
Round Table

11:00
11:00

1:00
1:00

3:00
3:00

CBS: Columbia Symphony
NBC-Blue: JOSEF MARAIS

11:15

1:15

3:15

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

11:30
11:30

1:30
1:30

3:30
3:30

NBC-Blue: Talent, Ltd.
NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

12:00
12:00

2:00
2:00

4:00
4:00

CBS: Walter Gross Orch.
NBC-Blue: National Vespers

12:15

2:15

4:15

NBC-Red: Upton Close

12:30
12:30
12:30

2:30
2:30
2:30

4:30
4:30
4:30

CBS: Spirit of '41
NBC-Blue: Behind the Mike
NBC- Red: Charles Dant Orch.

1:00
1:00

3:00
3:00

5:00
5:00
5:00

CBS: Prudential Family Hour
NBC-Blue: Moylan Sisters
NBC-Red: Joe and Mabel

5:15

NBC-Blue: Olivio Santoro

1:30

3:30

5:30

NBC-Red: Roy Shield Orch.

1:45

3:45

5:45

CBS: Husing on Sports

2:00
2:00

4:00
4:00

6:00
6:00

CBS: Ed Sullivan

NBC- Red: Catholic Hour

2:30
2:30

4:30
4:30

6:30
6:30

CBS: Gene Autry and Dear Mom
NBC-Red: The Great Gildersleeve

2:45

4:45

6:45

NBC-Blue: Edward Tomlinson

3:00
7:30

5:00
5:00

7:00
7:00

NBC-Blue: News From Europe
NBC-Red: Reg'lar Fellers

3:15

5:15

7:15

CBS: Delta Rhythm Boys

3:30
3:30

5:30
5:30
5:30

7:30
7:30
7:30

CBS: World News Tonight
NBC-Blue: Pearson and Allen
NBC-Red Fitch Bandwagon

3:45

5:45

7:45

MBS: Wythe Williams

4:00
4:00
4:00

7:00
7:00
4:30

6:00
6:00
6:00

6:30
6:30
6:30

8:00
8:00
8:00

8:30

8:30
8:30

CBS: Pause That Refreshes
NBC-Blue: Star Spangled Theater
NBC-Red: CHARLIE MCCARTHY

(Sept. 7)
CBS: Crime Doctor
NBC-Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery
NBC-Red: ONE MAN'S FAMILY

4:55

6:55

8:55

CBS: Elmer Davis

5:00
5:00
8:00
5:00

7:00
7:00
7:00
7:00

9:00
9:00
9:00
9:00

CBS: FORD SUMMER HOUR
MBS: Old Fashioned Revival
NBC-Blue: Walter Winchell
NBC-Red: Manhattan Merry-Go-
Round

8:15

7:15

9:15

NBC-Blue: The Parker Family

7:15
5:30

7:30
7:30

9:30
9:30

NBC-Blue: Irene Rich
NBC-Red: American Album of
Familiar Music

5:45

7:45

9:45

NBC-Blue: Bill Stern Sports Review

6:00
6:00
6:00

8:00
8:00
8:00

10:00
10:00
10:00

CBS: Take It or Leave It
NBC-Blue: Goodwill Hour
NBC-It rl Hour of Charm

4:00
6:30

8:30
8:30

10:30
10:30

CBS: Columbia Workshop
MBS: Cab Calloway

7:00
7:00

9:00
9:00

11:00
11:00

CBS: Headlines and Bylines
NBC: Dance Orchestra

INSIDE RADIO-The Radio Mirror Almanac-Programs from Aug. 27 to Sept. 25

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

9:15
12:15

12:45

11:45

7:00

11:00

10:15

8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15

8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00

9:15
9:15
9:15

9:30
9:30

3:15
10:00

2:30
10:15

10:30
10:30
10:30

10:45
10:45
10:45

11:00
11:00

11:15
11:15
11:15
11:30
11:30
11:30

11:45

11:55

12:00
12:00

12:15
12:30

2:00
1:00

1:15
1:30
1:30
1:30
1:45
2:45

7:55
2:15
9:00
2:45

2:45
7:00
3:00
7:00
7:15
3:15
6:30
7:30
6:30
4:00
7:15
4:00
4:00
7:30

7:00

7:45
7:45
8:00
8:00
8:00
8:15
8:15
8:15
8:30
8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00

9:15
9:15

9:30
9:30

9:45
9:45
9:45

MONDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:15 NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
8:15 NBC-Red. Gene and Glenn

9:00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

9:45 CBS: Hymns of All Churches
9:45 NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh
10:00 CBS: By Kathleen Norris
10:00 NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
10:00 NBC-Red: Bess Johnson
10:15 CBS: Myrt and Marge
10:15 NBC-Blue: Buck Private
10:15 NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph
10:30 CBS: Stepmother
10:30 NBC-Blue Clark Dennis
10:30 NBC-Red Bachelor's Children
10:45 CBS: Woman of Courage
10:45 NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
10:45 NBC-Red: The Road of Life
11:00 CBS: Treat Time
11:00 NBC-Red: Mary Marlin
11:15 CBS:/The Man I Married
11:15 NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family
11:30 NBC-Blue: Modern Mother
11:30 NBC-Red: The Goldbergs
11:45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
11:45 NBC-Blue: Alma Kitchell
11:45 NBC-Red: David Harum

00 12:00 CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
00 12:00 NBC-Red: Words and Music

15 12:15 CBS Big Sister

15 12:15 NBC-Red: The O'Neills

30 12:30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent

30 12:30 NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

45 12:45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday

45 12:45 MBS: Edith Adams' Future

00 1:00 CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful
00 1:00 MBS: We Are Always Young

15 1:15 CBS: Woman in White
15 1:15 MBS: Government Girl
15 1:15 NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

30 1:30 CBS: Right to Happiness
30 1:30 MBS: Front Page Farrell

45 1:45 CBS: Road of Life

45 1:45 MBS I'll Find My Way

00 2:00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone

00 2:00 NBC-Red: Light of the World

15 2:15 CBS: Girl Interne

15 2:15 NBC-Red: The Mystery Man

30 2:30 CBS: Fletcher Wiley

30 2:30 NBC-Blue The Munros

30 2:30 NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

45 2:45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

45 2:45 NBC-Blue: Midstream

45 2:45 NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

00 3:00 CBS: News for Women

00 3:00 NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

00 3:00 NBC-Red: Against the Storm

15 3:15 CBS: Frank Parker

15 3:15 NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill

15 3:15 NBC-Red: Ma Perkins

30 3:30 CBS: Renfro Valley Folks

30 3:30 NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife

30 3:30 NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

45 3:45 CBS Lecture Hall

45 3:45 NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill

45 3:45 NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

00 4:00 CBS: Richard Maxwell
00 4:00 NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
00 4:00 NBC-Red: Backstage Wife
15 4:15 NBC-Red: Stella Dallas
30 4:30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones
45 4:45 NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown
00 5:00 CBS: Mary Marlin
00 5:00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
00 5:00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave
15 5:15 CBS: The Goldbergs
15 5:15 NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life
30 5:30 CBS. The O'Neills
30 5:30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines
30 5:30 NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts
45 5:45 CBS: Burl Ives
45 5:45 NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch
5:45 NBC-Red Jack Armstrong
9:00 6:00 CBS Edwin C. Hill
9:10 6:10 CBS Bob Trout
4:15 6:15 CBS: Hedda Hopper
10:00 6:30 CBS: Paul Sullivan
4:45 6:45 CBS: The World Today

6:45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
4:45 6:45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas
5:00 7:00 CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
5:00 7:00 NBC-Blue: This Is the Show
5:00 7:00 NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
5:15 7:15 CBS: Lanny Ross
5:15 7:15 NBC-Red: European News
8:30 7:30 CBS BLONDIE
5:30 7:30 MBS: The Lone Ranger
5:30 7:30 NBC-Red: Cavalcade of America
6:00 8:00 CBS: Vox Pop
6:00 8:00 MBS. Cal Tinney
6:00 8:00 NBC-Blue: The World's Best
6:00 8:00 NBC-Red: The Telephone Hour
6:30 8:30 CBS GAY NINETIES
6:30 8:30 NBC-Blue: True or False
6:30 8:30 NBC- Red: Voice of Firestone
4:55 6:55 8:55 CBS: Elmer Davis
5:00 7:00 9:00 CBS: LUX THEATER (Sept. 8)
5:00 7:00 9:00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter
5:00 7:00 9:00 NBC-Blue: Basin Street Music
5:00 7:00 9:00 NBC-Red: Doctor I. Q.
5:30 7:30 9:30 NBC-Blue News
5:55 7:55 9:55 NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man
6:00 8:00 10:00 CBS: Freddie Martin
6:00 8:00 10:00 MBS: Raymond Gram Swing

8:00 10:00 NBC-Blue Famous Jury Trials
6:00 8:00 10:00 MBC-Red: Contented Hour
6:30 8:30 10:30 CBS: Girl About Town
6:30 8:3010:30 NBC-Blue: Radio Forum

OCTOBER, 1941

Agnes Moorehead's is the pretty
face behind Maggie Jiggs' voice.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Bringing Up Father, on NBC-Blue
Tuesday nights at 9:00, E. D. T. (rebroad-
cast to the West at 7:00, P. S. T.), spon-
sored by Rinso.

Yes, this is the famous old veteran of
the comic strips in person. Instead of just
looking at the pictures of Jiggs, Maggie,
their daughter, Dinty Moore and all the
other characters, you can now hear them
in action on the air. And of course the
story on the air is just as it has always
been in the cartoons — Maggie is anxious
to crash society, Jiggs wants to have a
plate of corned beef and cabbage at Dinty
Moore's, and daughter Nora'just wants to
live her own life without interference.

Around Radio Row, Bringing Up Father
is what is called a "package" show. This
means that the advertising agency which
is hired by the sponsor to tell the world
about a certain manufactured product —
in this case, Rinso — doesn't produce the
program itself. Instead, the scripts are
written, the actors hired and rehearsed,
and the music arranged by a company
which makes a specialty of producing
radio programs and nothing else. There
are several such companies — Bringing Up
Father is produced by one called Henry
Souvaine, Inc. It's a method of getting
radio programs on the air that seems to
be getting more and more popular all the
time.

As Jiggs and Maggie, you hear Neil
O'Malley and Agnes Moorehead, two of
radio's top actors. Agnes, in fact, is con-
sidered by lots of folks who should know,
to be one of the greatest actresses in
America. She can do any kind of part on
the air, and recently in Orson Welles' pic-
ture, "Citizen Kane," she scored a smash-
ing success as Kane's mother. Agnes is
a lot better looking than Maggie Jiggs is
supposed to be. On the stage of the NBC
studio where Bringing Up Father is broad-
cast there are life-sized cardboard pic-
tures of the cartoon characters. When
Agnes saw the one of Maggie she re-
marked, "This is the first time I've ever
felt I didn't have any reason to be dis-
satisfied with my looks."

Nora, Jiggs' and Maggie's daughter, is
played by Helen Shields, a very clever
young lady who looks like Miriam Hop-
kins, and Dinty Moore is played by Craig
McDonnell, who looks like the late Walter
Connolly.

^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

September 1: It's Labor Day, sign that
summer's coming to an end.

September 8: The Lux Theater with its
swell dramas and famous guest stars,
comes back to CBS tonight at 9:00.

9:15
12:15

TUESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

9:45

10:15

8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15

8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00

9:15
9:15
9:15

9:30
9:30

3:15
10:00

2:30
10:15

10:30
10:30
10:30

10:45
10:45
10:45

11:00
11:00

11:15
11:15
11:15

11:30
11:30
11:30

11:45
11:45

12:00
12:00

12:15
12:30

2:00
1:00

1:15
1:30
1:30
1:30
1:45
2:45

,2:15
9:00
2:45

2:45
7:00
8:00
7:00
7:15
3:15
3:15
3:30

7:30
7:30
7:30
4:30
4:30
4:30
4:55
8:00
7:00
8:30
5:30
5:30
5:30
5:55
6:00
6:00
6:00
6:00
6:15
6:30
6:45

7:45
7:45

8:00
8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15
8:15

8:30
8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00

9:15

9:30
9:30

9:45
9:45

10:00
10:00

10:15
10:15

10:30
10:30

10:45
10:45

11:00
11:00

11:15
11:15
11:15

11:30
11:30

11:45
11:45

12:00
12:00

12:15
12:15

12:30
12:30
12:30

12:45
12:45
12:45

1:00
1:00

1:15
1:15
1:15

1:30
1:30
1:30

1:45
1:45

2:00
2:00
2:00

2:15

2:30

2:45

3:00
3:00
3:00
3:15
3:15
3:30
3:30
3:30
3:45
3:45

9:00

4:15

10:00

4:45

4:45
5:00
5:00
5:00
5:15
5:15
5:15
5:30
5:45
6:00
6:00
9:30
6:30
6:30
6:30
6:55
7:00
7:00
7:00
7:30
7:30
7:30
7:55

S:00 10
8:00 10
8:00 10
8:00 10
8:1S 10
8:30 10
8:45 10

NBC-Blue:
NBC- Red:

Who's Blue
Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS. Hymns of all Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue. Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue Buck Private
NBC-Red Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue Clark Dennis
NBC-Red Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red The Road of Life

CBS. Mary Lee Taylor
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: The Man I Married
NBC-Red Pepper Young's Family

NBC-Blue Alma Kitchell

NBC-Red Th9 Goldbergs

CBS. Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red Words and Music

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue Farm and Home Hour

CBS. Our Gal Sunday
MBS: Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Government Girl
NBC-Blue Ted Malone

CBS Right to Happiness
MBS Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS. Girl Interne
NBC-Red: Mystery Man

CBS: Fletcher Wiley
NBC-Blue: The Munros
NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS: Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red Arnold Grimm's Daughter

NBC- Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue Honeymoon Hill
NBC-Red. Ma Perkins

CBS Renfro Valley Folks
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

CBS: Richard Maxwell
NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC- Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC- Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC- Red Young Widder Brown

CBS. Mary Marlin

NBC-Blue Children's Hour

NBC-Red Home of the Brave

CBS The Goldbergs

NBC-Red Portia Faces Life

CBS The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Red: We, the Abbotts

CBS Burl Ives

NBC-Blue. Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS Edwin C. Hill

CBS: Dorothy Kilgallen

CBS: Paul Sullivan

CBS The World Today

NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

NBC-Red Paul Douglas

CBS. Amos 'n' Andy

NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang

CBS: Lanny Ross

NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

NBC- Red: European News

CBS: Helen Menken

NBC-Red. H. V. Kaltenborn

CBS: Are You a Missing Heir?

MBS: Wythe Williams

NBC-Red: Johnny Presents

CBS: FIRST NIGHTER

NBC-Blue For America We Sing

NBC-Red: Horace Heidt

CBS Elmer Davis
00 CBS: We. the People
00 NBC-Blue Bringing Up Father
00 NBC-Red Battle ol the Sexes
30 CBS Report to the Nation
30 NBC Blue News
SO NBC-Red Hap Hazard Show
55 NBC-Blue; The Nickel Man
00 CBS Glenn Miller

M BS Raymond Gram Swing
00 NBC-Blue: New American Music
00 NBC-Red: Date With Judy
15 CBS Public Affairs
30 NBC-Red: College Humor
45 CBS News of the World

1:00

8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15

:30 10:

7:45
7:45

8:00
8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15
8:15
8:30
8:30

8:45
8:45
8:45

9:00
9:00

9:15
9:15

9:45
9:45

10:00
10:00

10:15 12
10:15 12

WEDNESDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

30
30

:45
:45

:00
:00

:15
:15
:15

:30
30

:45
:45

00
;00

;15
:15

:30
30
30

:45
.45
45

00
00
00

:15

:15
15

30
:30
:30

:45
:45

:00

00
:15
:30

00
10
15
00

:45

55
:00
:00
:00

:00 10
:15|l0
:30 10
:45 id

NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue: Ray Perkins

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Betty Crocker
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Buck Private
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS: Stepmother

NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS. Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin
CBS: The Man D Married
NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS. Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red Words and Music

15 CBS: Big Sister

15 NBC-Red The O'Neills

30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
30 NBC-Blue Farm and Home Hour

45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday

45 MBS: Edith Adams' Future

00 CBS. Life Can be Beautiful
00 MBS: We Are Always Young

15 CBS: Woman in White
15 MBS: Government Girl

15 NBC-Blue- Ted Malone

30 CBS: Right to Happiness
30 MBS: Front Page Farrell

45 CBS: Road of Life

45 MBS: I'll Find My Way

00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone

00 NBC- Red Light of the World

15 CBS: Girl Interne

15 NBC-Red Mystery Man

30 CBS: Fletcher Wiley
30 NBC-Blue The Munros
30 NBC-Red Valiant Lady

45 CBS: Kate Hopkins

45 NBC-Blue: Midstream

45 NBC-Red Arnold Grimm's Daughter

00 CBS: News for Women

00 NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce

00 NBC-Red: Against the Storm

15 CBS: Frank Parker

15 NBC-Blue Honeymoon Hill

15 NBC-Red Ma Perkins

30 CBS: Renfro Valley Folks

30 NBC-Blue John's Other Wife

30 NBC-Red: The Guiding Light

45 NBC-Blue Just Plain Bill

45 NBC- Red. Vic and Sade

00 CBS: Richard Maxwell

00 NBC-Blue: Club Matinee

00 NBC-Red: Backstage Wife

15 NBC- Red: Stella Dallas

30 NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

45 NBC-Red Young Widder Brown

00 CBS: Mary Marlin

00 NBC-Blue: Children's Hour

00 NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

15 CBS: The Goldbergs

15 NBC- Red: Portia Faces Life

30 CBS: The O'Neills

30 NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

30 NBC- Red: We. the Abbotts

45 CBS: Burl Ives

45 NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

45 NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

00 CBS. Edwin C. Hill

10 CBS: Bob Trout

15 CBS: Hedda Hopper

30 CBS: Paul Sullivan

45 CBS: The World Today

45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

45 NBC-Red Paul Douglas

00 CBS. Amos 'n' Andy

00 NBC-Blue: EASY ACES

00 NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang

15 CBS: Lanny Ross

15 NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen

15 NBC-Red: European News

30 MBS: The Lone Ranger

00 CBS Grand Central Station <

00 MBS. Cal Tlnney

00 NBC-Blue: Quiz Kids

00 NBC-Red: The Thin Man

30 CBS: Dr. Christian

30 MBS: Boake Carter

30 NBC-Blue: Manhattan at Midnight

30 NBC-Red: Plantation Party

5S CBS: Elmer Davis

00 CBS: TREASURY HOUR

00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter

00 '■' i:Iim Hemisphere Revue

00 NBC-Red: Eddie Cantor (Sept. 3)

30 NBC-Red: Mr. District Attorney

55 NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

00 CBS: Glenn Miller

00 MBS Raymond Gram Swing

00 J : ' i : I , i . Author's Playhouse

00 NBC-Red: KAY KYSER

IS CBS: Public Affairs

30 CBS: Juan Arvlzu

45!CBS: News of the World

Mary Mason is the petite star of
the new CBS Show, Maudie's Diary

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Maudie's Diary, on CBS every Thurs-
day night at 7:30, E. D. T., rebroadcast to
the West at 7:30, P. S. T., sponsored by
Wonder Bread.

What Henry Aldrich is to the American
boy, the heroine of this new program is
to the American girl. Maudie Mason, al-
ready famous among magazine readers, is
a seventeen-year-old dazzle-dish, sparky,
or marvie who wears saddle-shoes,
gorges herself on lemon cokes, talks a
language of her own, and is as constantly
in trouble as Henry Aldrich himself. And
incidentally, dazzle-dish, sparky, and
marvie are all samples of that special
Maudie language, and all mean the same
thing: a very pretty, vivacious and de-
lightful girl, someone who is too divinely
super.

Maudie Mason is played by a sparkie
whose name in real life happens to be
Mary Mason. Mary is a little bit older
than her radio character. She's twenty-
two, which isn't exactly ancient, at that.
She was born on the West Coast and
worked there on the stage and in movies
before she came East. You've heard her
on other programs, but this is her first
leading role on the air. She got the part
last spring when she was acting on
Broadway in "Charley's Aunt," and im-
mediately got to work studying teen-age
girls in order to understand Maudie bet-
ter. Mary's rather serious and thoughtful
herself, and Maudie offers her the first
chance she's had to play an enthusiastic,
careless sort of character.

Maudie's boy friend, Davy Dillon, is
played by Bob Walker, another young
actor who steps in this program from sup-
porting roles to a big part.

Don't try to get in to a broadcast of
Maudie's Diary if you live in New York or
come there on a visit, because the pro-
ducers of the program have decided not
to have a studio audience. It's really too
bad, too, because Mary Mason is too pretty
to be wasted on sound-effects men and the
boys in the control room.

■^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ►

DATES TO REMEMBER

August 28: Benny Goodman does his last
broadcast tonight in his Thursday-night
sponsored series, NBC-Red at 8:00.

September 3: Eddie Cantor returns to-
night, at 9:00 on NBC-Red.

September 4: The Maxwell House show
starts another radio season tonight — so
tune it in at 8:00 on NBC-Red.

September 11: There's a new show start-
ing tonight, designed to let you know
what's going on in the world. It's called
Ahead of the Headlines, on NBC-Blue
at 10:30 P. M.

9:15
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THURSDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

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NBC-Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn
NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

CBS: Hymns of All Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Walter Patterson
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Buck Private
NBC-Red: Ellen Randolph

CBS. Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children
CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Mary Lee Taylor

NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: The Man I Married

NBC-Red Pepper Young's Family

NBC-Blue: Richard Kent

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories

NBC-Red. David Harum

CBS. KATE SMITH SPEAKS

NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS. Big Sister

NBC-Red The O'Neills

CBS Romance of Helen Trent

NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

MBS Edith Adams' Future

CBS: Life Can be Beautiful

MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS. Woman in White

MBS: Government Girl

NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

NBC-Red Pin Money Party

CBS: Right-to Happiness

MBS: Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life

MBS: I'll Fjnd My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone

NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS: Girl Interne

NBC- Red: Mystery Man

CBS.: Fletcher Wiley

NBC-Blue: The Munros

NBC-Red: Valiant Lady

CBS Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS. Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill
NBC-Red Ma Perkins

8:
8:
8:

9:00
9:00
9:00

10:00
10:00

10:30
10:30

CBS: Renfro Valley Folks
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC- Red: The Guiding Light

CBS: Adventures in Science
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

CBS. Richard Maxwell
NBC-Blue: Club Matinee
NBC- Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas
NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones
NBC-Red Young Widder Brown
CBS. Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs
NBC-Red Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills

NBC-Blue: Drama Behind Headlines

NBC-Blue: We, the Abbotts

CBS: Burl Ives
NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch
NBC- Red: Jack Armstrong
CBS: Edwin C. Hill
CBS: Bob Edge

CBS: Paul Sullivan
NBC-Red: Rex Stout

CBS: The World Today
NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: Amos 'n' Andy
NBC-Blue: EASY ACES
NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang
CBS: Lanny Ross
NBC-Blue: Mr. Keen
NBC-Red: European News

CBS: Maudie's Diary
NBC-Red: Xavier Cugat

NBC-Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

CBS: Death Valley Days
MBS: Wythe Williams
NBC-Blue: The World's Best
NBC-Red: Maxwell House Show

(Sept. 4)

CBS: Barbershop Quartet
CBS: Elmer Davis
CBS: Major Bowes Hour
MBS: Gabriel Heatter
NBC-Red: KRAFT MUSIC HALL

NBC-Blue: The Nickel Man

CBS: Glenn Miller
NBC-Red: Rudy Vallee

CBS: Professor Quiz

NBC-Blue: Ahead of the Headline .
NBC-Red: Good Neighbors

CBS Newt of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

How Old does your Face Powder
Whisper you are?

Can your Face Powder
Keep a Secret?

Of course your age is your own af-
fair! But can your face powder keep
a secret? Can it hide those first sly
signs of age? Or does it cruelly ac-
cent every tired line — make you
look a little older? Find your
lucky shade — find your most
flattering shade— in my new Twin-
Hurricane Face Powder!

By ^£*d%_£^j%0Z,

When someone asks your age, do you
hesitate, just an instant? Do you drop
off a year or two ? It's no crime, you
know . . . everyone wants to look young!

But if you want to look younger, more
attractive— why use a shade of powder
that may age you— even a tiny bit?

Are you sure that the shade you are
using is the perfect shade for you? Some
shades can hide your loveliness and
charm— just as certain harsh.unflattering
lights can. But the right shade of powder

can give your skin new softness and
freshness— enchanting new glamor!

I hope you don't choose your powder
by looking at the shade in the box. "Vbu
must try different shades on your own
skin before you decide which shade is
yours, which makes you look your
youngest.

That's why I offer you this gift; I'll
send you FREE all 9 new shades of Lady
Esther Face Powder. Try them all — let
your mirror tell you which is yours!

What is the secret of Lady Esther Face
Powder? It's the new way it's made— the
first really different way in generations.
It's blown and buffed by Twin Hurri-
canes until it is softer and smoother by
far than any powder made the ordinary
way. \bu'Il love it! It goes on so smoothly

and evenly, and clings 4 long hours or
more. Women by the thousands say it's
as loyal and flattering as any face powder
they've ever used!

Try All 9 Shades FREE!

Find your most flattering shade of Lady
Esther Face Powder— without guesswork
and without cost. Send for the 9 new
shades and try them all. You'll know your
lucky shade — it makes your skin look
younger, lovelier! Mail this coupon now,
before you forget.

FACE POWDER

( You can paste this on a penny postcard)
Lady Esther, (72)

7134 West 65th Street, Chicago, 111.
Please send me FREE AND POSTPAID your
9 new shades of face powder, also a tube of
your Four Purpose Face Cream.

C1TY_

Ifyoulirein Canada,

rite Ladv Esther, Toronto. Out '

- I

r I A «|j | Beginning Sept ember I5th, lady Esther announces ORSON WELLES in an entirely new kind of
iLnSH • radio entertainment. Columbia network, Monday evening. See your local paper for time.

OCTOBER, 1941

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FRIDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

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NBC- Blue. Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

NBC-Blue. BREAKFAST CLUB

NBC-Red Isabel Manning Hewson

CBS. Betty Crocker
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Walter Patterson
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS. Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue. Buck Private
NBC-Red Ellen Randolph

CBS. Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS. Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS Treat Time
NBC-Red Mary Marlin

CBS: The Man I Married
NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS. Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS. KATE SMITH SPEAKS
NBC-Red Words and Music

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red The O'Neills

CBS Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue Farm and Home Hour
CBS. Our Gal Sunday
MBS Edith Adams' Future

CBS Life Can be Beautiful
MBS We Are Always Young

CBS Woman in White
MBS Government Girl
NBC-Blue Ted Malone

CBS Right to Happiness
MBS Front Page Farrell

CBS Road of Life
MBS I'll Find My Way

CBS Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World
CBS Girl Interne
NBC-Red Mystery Man

CBS. Fletcher Wiley
NBC-Blue: The Munros
NBC-Red Valiant Lady

CBS. Kate Hopkins

NBC-Blue: Midstream

NBC-Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

CBS: News for Women
NBC-Blue: Orphans of Divorce
NBC-Red: Against the Storm

CBS: Frank Parker
NBC-Blue: Honeymoon Hill
NBC-Red Ma Perkins

CBS:|Renfro Valley Folks
NBC-Blue: John's Other Wife
NBC-Red The Guiding Light

CBS: Trailside Adventures
NBC-Blue: Just Plain Bill
NBC-Red: Vic and Sade

CBS Richard Maxwell
NBC-Blue Club Matinee
NBC-Red Backstage Wife

CBS. Highways to Health
NBC- Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red:

CBS. Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC- Red. Home of the Brave

Lorenzo Jones
Young Widder Brown

CBS: The Goldbergs
NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills
NBC-Red We. the Abbotts

CBS: Burl Ives

NBC-Blue: Wings on Watch

NBC-Red: Jack Armstrong

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS Bob Trout

CBS Hedda Hopper

CBS Paul Sullivan

CBS. The World Today

NBC-Blue Lowell Thomas

NUC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS; Amos 'n Andy

NBC-Red Fred Waring's Gang

CBS Lanny Ross

NBC-Red: European News

CBS: American Cruise

MBS The Lone Ranger

CliS Claudia and David

NBC-Blue: Auction Quiz

NBC-Red Cities Service Concert

(HS Proudly We Hail

NBC-Red INFORMATION PLEASE

CBS Elmer Davis

CBS Great Moments from Great

Plays
Mr. ■ Gabriel Hoatter
N K( Blue: Vox Pop
NBC-Red Waltz Tlmo
CBS Hollywood Premiere
MBS Elisabeth Rethborg
NBC-Red Uncle Walter's Dog House
NBC-Blue Tho Nickel Man
CBS Penthouso Party
MBS Raymond Gram Swing
NIK Red Wings of Destiny
CBS News of the World

His clever musical compositions are
bringing fame to Morton Gould

HAVE YOU TUNED IN . . .

Morton Gould's music, either on Mu-
tual Saturday nights at 9:30, E. D. T., or
during Major Bowes' illness on CBS
Thursday nights at 9:00.

For some time now a young man named
Morton Gould has been quietly minding
his business, composing new tunes, ar-
ranging old ones in an exciting and clever
way, and broadcasting the results with an
orchestra led by himself on unsponsored
programs over the Mutual network.
Part of the listening audience heard and
applauded his work, but sponsors didn't
seem interested until one night this sum-
mer when Major Bowes was suddenly
forced by illness to drop his famous
Amateur Show. Then, with almost no
warning at all, Morton found himself
leading a 45-piece band on CBS, with
Chrysler Motors for a sponsor — all because
the Major, whom Morton scarcely knew
personally, had been listening to and
enjoying Morton's music for a good many
months.

Slight, intellectual-looking Morton
Gould took the sudden turn of affairs in
his stride. All his life he's been used
to having events shunt him from ob-
scurity to fame. When he was four he
astonished music teachers by being able
to play the piano without ever having
taken a lesson, and at six he had his own
first composition published. It was a
waltz called "Just Six." At seventeen he
had graduated from New York Uni-
versity's School of Music and was giving
lectures in music conservatories and col-
leges.

Morton is only twenty-seven now, and
is a full-fledged composer of symphonic
music as well as a radio star. He prepares
all the distinctive arrangements of popu-
lar music you hear on his programs, leav-
ing New York and hiding away at a sum-
mer vacation resort where he has no
friends, in order to have complete privacy
while he works.

He isn't married, and admits it's prob-
ably because he's always been too busy to
fall in love.

^ For Eastern Standard Time or Cen-
tral Daylight Time subtract one
hour from Eastern Daylight Time ^

DATES TO REMEMBER

August 29: For horse-racing fans — Mutual
broadcasts the Saratoga Steeplechase
at 2:30 this afternoon.

August 30: More horse-racing — the Hope-
ful and the Saratoga Cup, both on Mu-
tual at 5: 15.

September 5: Buddy Baer and Abe Simon
fight tonight, and Mutual broadcasts
the battle at 10:00.

September 19: Bob Burns is scheduled to
start his new comedy series tonight,
9:30 on CBS.

o1"

£8

°-z

H
U)

9:30
9:00

10:30

8:00
8:00

|9:30
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!9:00
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SATURDAY

Eastern Daylight Time

8:00
8:00

8:15
8:15

8:45
8:45
8:45

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9:00
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9:30

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CBS: The World Today
NBC: News

NBC- Blue: Who's Blue
NBC-Red: Hank Lawsen

NBC-Red: Dick Leibert

CBS. Adelaide Hawley
NBC-Blue: String Ensemble
NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

CBS: Press News
NBC-Blue: Breakfast Club
NBC-Red News

NBC-Red Market Basket

CBS: Old Dirt Dobber
NBC-Red: New England Music

CBS Burl Ives

NBC-Blue: Walter Patterson

NBC-Red: Let's Swing

NBC-Red Happy Jack

CBS: Gold it You Find It
NBC-Red: America The Free

NBC-Red: Lincoln Highway
CBS The Life of Riley

CBS. Dorothy Kilgallen
NBC-Blue: Our Barn
NBC-Red: Vaudeville Theater

CBS: Hillbilly Champions

CBS: Country Journal
NBC-Red: Consumer Time

CBS Stars Over Hollywood
NBC-Blue: Farm Bureau
NBC-Red: Call to Youth

MBS Edith Adams' Future

7:30
7:30
7:30

CBS:

MBS:

Let's Pretend
We Are Always Young

MBS Government Girl

CBS:
MBS
NBC-

Brush Creek Follies
Front Page Farrell
Blue: Cleveland Calling

MBS I'll Find My Way

CBS:
NBC-
CBS.
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

NBC-
CBS:

CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

CBS.

NBC
NBC-

Buffalo Presents

Blue: Johnny Long Orch.

Of Men and Book.
Red: Bright Idea Club

Dorian String Quartet
Blue: Indiana Indigo
Red: Nature Sketches

Red: Golden Melodies

Vera Brodsky

Calling Pan-America
Blue: Club Matinee
Red: Listen to Lytel'

Red: A Boy. a Girl, and a Band

Matinee at Meadowbrook
Blue: Tommy Dorsey
Red: The World Is Yours

NBC-Blue Dance Music

CBS: Elmer Davis

NBC-Red Religion In the News

CBS. The World Today
NBC-Blue Edward Tomlinson
NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

CBS: People's Platform
NBC-Blue: Message of Israel
NBC-Red. Defense for America

CBS: Wayne King

NBC-Blue: Little Ol' Hollywood

NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

NBC-Red. H. V. Kaltenborn

CBS: Guy Lombardo
NBC-Blue: Boy Meets Band
NBC-Red- Knickerbocker Playhouse

CBS: City Desk

NBC-Blue: Bishop and the Gargoyle

NBC-Red Truth or Consequences

CBS: YOUR HIT PARADE
MBS: Gabriel Heatter
NBC-Blue: Spin and Win
NBC- Red: National Barn Dance

MBS: Morton Gould

NBC-Blue: NBC Summer Symphony

CBS: Saturday Night Serenade

MBS: Chicago Concert

CBS: Public Affairs

CBS: Four Clubmen

S: News of the World

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

1 do solemnly swear...''

BOSTON, MASS.: INVESTIGATORS TESTIFY THAT 892 OUT OF
1019 USERS OF ANOTHER NAPKIN SAID, "MODESS IS SOFTER!"

Professional Visitor. This woman is a professional inves-
tigator. She is swearing to the results of an amazing "soft-
ness test" conducted in Boston, Mass.

1019 women made this test. Each was a user of a leading
brand of "layer-type" napkin. Not a single user of Modess,
the "fluff-type" napkin, was allowed to make the test.
Yet 892 of the 1019, when asked to feel these two napkins,
said Modess, the "fluff-type" napkin, was softer!

Those little kits carried by investigators held
the napkins so that all identifying marks were
completely concealed. Women making the test
could not see which was which. The investi-
gators themselves did not know for whom the
test was being conducted.

What could be simpler ? "Just feel these two nap-
kins and tell me which is softer." That's all
there was to the test. The only napkin these
women might possibly recognize was the one
they habitually used, and no Modess user
made the test. Yet Modess won by a stagger-
ing majority.

On the night of May 27th, when the final results
were in, 89'2 of the 1019 women had said that
the "fluff-type" napkin (Modess) was softer.
And remember — these were all women who
were users of the "layer-type" napkin. Amaz-
ing, isn't it, that women could go along, over-
looking the fact that another and newer type
of napkin might be softer?

Does softer to the touch mean softer in use? That is

something you can answer only by actually trying Modess.
Buy a box of Modess today. Learn for yourself if it gives
you the same comfort that has won millions of loyal users.
You can buy Modess in the regular size, or Junior Modess
— a slightly narrower napkin — at your favorite store.

OCTOBER, 1941

Modess

892 OUT OF 1019 BOSTON, MASS. WOMEN SAID — "IT'S SOFTERF

What's New From Coast to Coast

(Continued from page 6)

shows as a special star feature.

Away from the broadcasting studio
Clarence piles up more work for him-
self. He is organist at the Myers Park
Methodist Church, has a twelve-piece
dance band that plays at local affairs,
composes many songs which he plays
on request, and is musician's con-
tractor for WBT. With all that ac-
tivity, he's still seen around Char-
lotte every night, always escorting
a beautiful girl — a different one every
time. It's a swell hobby, this one of
collecting pretty girls, and Clarence
is to be envied because he's so suc-
cessful at it.

Dinah Shore, the songstress, has
two heart-interests and can't choose
between them. But she's patriotic
about the whole business — one of her
beaux is Lieutenant Marvin Schacher
of the Marines; the other is Corporal
Allan Greive, of the Army.

The yen for a home of their own
got both Ralph Edwards, the Truth
or Consequences master of cere-
monies, and Jay Jostyn, who plays
Mr. District Attorney. Ralph bought
a place up in Bedford Valley, New
York, and is commuting for his radio
shows and rehearsals. Jay, who used
to live in an apartment suburb,
moved farther out on Long Island and
bought a big house and two acres of
ground. He discovered that he was
the proud owner of many different
flowers and plants, none of which he
could name, so now he's deep in the
study of horticulture.

Joe Boland, an actor you've heard
on many daytime programs, was the
victim of too much wifely zeal this
summer. Mrs. Boland, who works
for CBS, spent her two-week vacation
visiting her parents in Ohio, and since
some of the furniture in their apart-
ment needed reupholstering and refin-
ishing, she decided that a good time
to have the job done was while she
was away. So she sent the furniture
out — quietly forgetting that Joe, who
was staying in town for the two weeks,
would be left without a place to sit
down in his own apartment. Luckily,
the bed didn't need to be re-uphol-
stered, so at least Joe could sleep.

Dick Todd, handsome but hefty
young baritone of the Saturday morn-
ing Vaudeville Theater program on
NBC, is trying to get rid of twenty
pounds. He's been promised a Holly-
wood screen test if he can make it.

Nashville, Tenn. — There aren't
many radio personalities who are as
colorful as George Dewey Hay, the
Solemn Old Judge of station WSM's
beloved program, the Grand Ole Opry.
He has been the program's master of
ceremonies and guiding spirit for the
full sixteen years of its existence,
stepping up to the microphone every
Saturday night to greet the hundreds
who sit in the studio audience and the
many thousands who sit listening in
their homes.

He's not really a judge,
but he has become so closely
identified with his air char-
acter that all his friends
have forgotten his first
name and call him, simply,
"Judge."

The Judge was born on
November 5, 1895, at Attica,
Indiana. He was a young
man, just ready to start his
career, when the United
States entered the World
War, and he enlisted in the
Army in 1918. After the war
he started out to be a re-
porter on the Memphis
Commercial Appeal, and
something that happened
while he was on this paper
probably gave radio listen-
ers their Grand Ole Opry
show. As a reporter, he ran
across a log cabin in the hill
country that gave a square
dance and singing fest every
Saturday night. People from
miles around would come to
take part in the festivities,
and the young reporter was
deeply impressed by the
simplicity, sincerity and
good humor of these gather-
ings.

That was in 1923, and ra-
dio didn't amount to much
in those days. But later,
while George was still
working as a reporter and studying
law in his spare time, radio seemed
more interesting to him, and he left
the newspaper to become director and
announcer at WMC, Memphis. Alter
nine months there, he went to WLS in
Chicago, where his memories of the
log cabin festivities crystallized in the
WLS Barn Dance, on which he be-
came the first Barn Dance announcer
and master of ceremonies. He spent
almost two years at WLS and then
came to WSM in Nashville, where he's
been ever since.

The first Grand Ole Opry program
was quite a different thing from the
ones WSM listeners hear now. The
cast consisted of one fiddler, named
Uncle Jimmy Thompson, the Judge,
and a steamboat whistle — plus a sin-
cere desire on the part of everyone
concerned to play American folk mu-
sic that would please anyone who
happened to be listening in. Today the
cast numbers sixty-five, and Uncle
Jimmy Thompson has long since
passed on to his final reward, but the
Judge, the steamboat whistle, and the
sincerity remain.

The Grand Ole Opry got its name
through chance. It happened that the
first program went on the air right
after a network show which had
Walter Damrosch talking about Grand
Opera. When the Judge and Uncle
Jimmy took over the mike they ex-
temporaneously christened their pro-
gram the Grand Ole Opry, and the
title has stuck for sixteen years.

The Judge has been married since
March 29, 1918. Mrs. Hay was Lena
Jamison of Chicago, and they have
two daughters, Cornelia, 21, and Mar-
garet, 17.

Whenever the Judge isn't busy at
the WSM studios, you'll find him on
one of Nashville's golf courses. He
goes over all the courses at better
than par. His hardest job, he says,

George Dewey Hay's grin belles
his title of Solemn Old Judge on
WSM'S popular Grand Ole Opry.

is living down the title, Solemn Old
Judge, and convincing people that in
spite of it he isn't really an old man.
But that isn't really a hard job, once
people have seen him in person.

Salt Lake City — Ed Stoker, musi-
cal director for station KDYL since
national defense caught up with "By"
Woodbury last spring, is an ex-child
prodigy who lived up to all expecta-
tions.

From the time he was able to climb
up on the piano bench until he was
nine, Ed was a strictly self-made
musician, playing entirely by ear. His
mother was an accomplished pianist,
and he soon learned to play every
number in her repertoire; but before
he was ten she decided it was high
time he learned to read musical notes
instead of going by ear and instinct.

One year of serious piano study,
and little Ed had made up his mind
to follow a musical career. Since he
thought he wanted to be a conductor,
he started to study the violin, but
three years later he returned to his
first instrumental love, the piano,
and became a pupil of Frank Asper,
the Mormon Tabernacle's world-re-
nowned organist.

By the time he was out of high
school, Ed had organized a small or-
chestra and started barnstorming with
it through the wilds of the still
"woolly" West. The little band went
into remote settlements that were
never visited by any other musical
group, and the stories Ed tells of his
experiences in some of these out-of-
way spots make Western thriller-fic-
tion seem tame by comparison.

In 1937 Ed joined "By" Woodbury's
band, and the following year when the
band signed a contract with KDYL,
he became "By's" assistant director.
Now that "By" is serving the cause
of defense, Ed is a full-fledged musical

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

director for the station.

Ed spent his vacation this summer
right in Salt Lake City, although he'd
been invited to come to Hollywood
and visit some music publisher
friends. He had a very excellent rea-
son for giving up the Hollywood trip.
A couple of years ago he and Wood-
bury went to Hollywood for a few
days' rest, and put up at an expen-
sive hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. One
night, late, Ed was walking home
alone and was within two blocks of
the hotel when he found his arms
pinned to his back, and a trio of
thugs quickly took his money, watch,
and rings. They were about to let
him go when one of them said, "Wait
a minute — that suit'd look good on
me." Whereupon Ed was pushed in-
to an alleyway, undressed, and made
to continue his way home in the
shabbiest pair of corduroy trousers
anyone ever wore.

All this explains why Ed Stoker
decided he'd have a better time this
summer in Salt Lake City than in
Hollywood.

Ed Stoker, musical director for
KDYL in Salt Lake, refused to
visit Hollywood — for a reason.

Have you missed the voice of an-
nouncer Jean Paul King? He's given
up announcing, and has returned to
his home town, Tacoma, Washington,
to be director of public relations for a
big firm there.

* * *

Jo Ranson, radio editor on a New
York newspaper, has spent quite a few
years writing nice things about the
different shows he heard on the air
— and now radio people are having
their chance to pay him back. Collab-
orating with Oliver Pilat, Jo has writ-
ten and had published a book about
Coney Island, "Sodom by the Sea,"
and several air shows have com-
mented favorably on the book or in-
vited Jo to guest-star at the mike.
Aspiring authors needn't think,
though, that they need only be radio
editors to get their books mentioned
on the air — the books have to be good
ones, too, like "Sodom by the Sea."

* * *

If you want to keep Rudy Vallee's
friendship, don't tell him how good
his air show has been lately. Too
many people have done that, and it
usually turns out that what they
really mean is "since John Barrymore
has been on it." (Con't. on page 60)

OCTOBER, 1941

'■"W*' #'

At least you are while
that wise mother of yours has
anything to say about it . . .

That funny white thing she just pinned around
your middle was washed with Golden Fels-Naptha
Soap. No wonder it feels so good and soft. It's com-
pletely, sweetly clean.

No half-way washing will do where your clothes
are concerned. No half-way soap is going to leave
dirt in your dainty things.

Fels-Naptha's two busy cleaners — gentle nap-
tha and richer, golden soap — help your mother
every wash day. They do the hard work that
really gets the dirt out. That's why mother's
face is so lovely and gay. That's why her arms
are never too tired to pick you up and play.
You're in luck, young man. We'll bet
when you get big enough for 'baby-talk',
the first words you say will
<; be 'Fels-Naptha'!

Wash-weary

TABLE
LINEN

takes on w a proud
new look

when starched with

LINIT

"The Friend of Fine Fabrics"

Napery -getting that limp-as-a-
dishrag look? Worse still, does it
launder up stiff as a board? Listen,
"dress" it up as fine laundries
everywhere do — with Linit! This
modern laundry starch penetrates
the fabric instead of merely coat-
ing the surface. Table linens iron
up with a smooth, even finish, a
luxury-feeling. They stay fresh
and clean looking longer.

{eet and Display Prints

*' in an album -fo full advantage
with £H$r*/PoC#)<ct"Art Vomers"

— Get the Genuine! — They
mount prints tight or loose.
Negatives may be filed in back
of prints for ready reference.
lOc buys lOO of a color -
black, white, gray, gold, silver,
sepia, red.

At your dealer or write to
Engel Art Corners Mfg. Co.,
Dopt. 80 X, <72l N. Clark St.. Chlcogo.

Rooking the Radio Buyer

Before you buy that new radio, or have your old
one repaired, read about the methods unscru-
pulous dealers use to rob you of your money!

DO YOU own a radio? Do you
plan to buy one, if you don't
have one already?

Yes?

Then watch out! You're the logical
prey of the many tricksters who fat-
ten on the radio trade, while honest
dealers weep.

The chances are that you don't un-
derstand very much about radio. How
it works and why — that's all pretty
much a mystery to you. That's all
right — even experts don't know ex-
actly what electricity is. But it's this
very ignorance on the part of the lay-
man about the inner workings of radio
sets which makes their sale such a
rich and juicy field for unscrupulous
racketeers. Repairmen with lazy con-
sciences and glib tongues get their
share of the booty too, when you call
them in to fix your ailing radio.

You simply can't afford to buy a
radio set or have your old one over-
hauled, without finding out in ad-
vance about some of the tricks that
may be pulled on you. To expose
these tricks is the purpose of this
article. First, though, let's make it
plain that we're not referring to
reputable, well-known manufacturers
or repairing firms. We're only point-
ing out how important it is for you to
make sure that you do patronize these
well-known, trustworthy companies.
When you're shopping for a radio,
don't worry too much over how many
tubes your prospective set has — put
more thought into finding out how
many years the man you're buying
it from has been in business, and how
well he stands in the community.

Did you think that bootlegging went
out with the Eighteenth Amendment?
But the radio set you were looking at
only yesterday may be a "bootleg"
radio — particularly if it seemed to be
"such a bargain."

The bootleg radio industry, which
has snared many a bargain seeker,
began when a New York man — call
him Joseph K. Blank— had a Great
Idea. He had friends who owned
radio stores, and with them he formed
a company to buy transformers and
coils, dials and cabinets, and other
radio gadgets at wholesale auctions of
radio parts. These miscellaneous parts
were shipped to a loft and Joe and his

friends began manufacturing radios
from them. The Blank radio was a
piece of junk, but it made a noise and
dealers could buy it cheap. Sales
were only fair.

Then Joe enlarged on his original
idea. One day he emerged from an
auction with a boxful of gilt name-
plates which had been etched for a
famous manufacturer. They'd had to
be put up for auction because the
well-known firm that had ordered
them was close to bankruptcy and
couldn't use them. Joe took the name-
plates and slapped them on his own
sets. This made them counterfeit, but
Joe didn't care — they sold like mad.

When the phoney nameplates were
all used up, Joe went to a Brooklyn
metal shop and ordered some more.
But this time he didn't copy another
trademark exactly — too much risk.
He just borrowed names. Here, as
discovered by the Federal Trade Com-
mission at Washington, are some of
the names that Joe and other radio
bootleggers have borrowed:

Marconi, Edison, Bell, Victor, RCA
and Majestic. There has been an RSA
in spaghetti script like an RCA, and
an EB which was a lot like a GE. A
"Bronswick" looked altogether too
much like Brunswick. Longer names
were invented, affairs like Victor In-
ternational and Edison-Bell. Some
labels employed large and small type:

EDISON
Radio Stores

An Edison radio? Not at all — an
"Edison Radio Stores" radio. The
cutest label of the lot went like this:

Little
GENERAL
ELECTRIC

When the maker was politely asked
what right he had to borrow the name
"General Electric," he retorted right-
eously, "I did nothing of the sort.
My radio is the 'Little General.' The
word 'electric' means it isn't a crystal
set."

The Federal Trade Commission
people in Washington point out that
it isn't a crime to make a cheap radio,
but to borrow a man's good name is a
form of robbery. Radios like these

By FRANK W. BROCK and JAMES W. HOLDEN

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

are still being thrown together out of
cheap materials. They can legally be
shipped to dealers without name-
plates. Dealers can buy fake name-
plates and put them on. Which is
against the law — but there are so
many dealers!

Remember that a dishonest dealer
doesn't like to use a famous trade-
mark exactly. Make sure that the
name on the set you're thinking of
buying is exactly like the name in
that company's advertisements, and
you'll be safe from this particular
branch of skullduggery, at least.

There are "bargain" radios, how-
ever, that don't make any effort to
carry a famous trademark — and still
they may not be worth their dealers'
asking prices.

One spring day five years ago a
radio expert picked apart one of
Joe Blank's radios. He was startled
to find that one tube was a dummy,
wired so that it glowed (all tubes
give a dim light when they are work-
ing) but not connected to the oper-
ating circuits of the set. The maker
had spared himself some expensive
wiring and parts.

Last year the Chicago Better Busi-
ness Bureau tore a certain bargain
radio limb from limb. This was what
they found:

THE advertisement indicates that

' the radio contains fifteen tubes. Ex-
perts who examined the set state that
eight of the so-called tubes are so
connected that the filaments light, but
the other elements of the tubes per-
form no useful function. These tubes
could be removed without stopping
or interfering with the performance
of the receiver."

A seven-tube set, and they were
selling it as a fifteen-tube! Here was
the conclusion: "The public can no
longer always depend on the number
of tubes in the set as an indicator of
its value."

Some salesmen may casually men-
tion "balance" or "ballast" tubes. Look
out. These are likely to be dummies,
as useful to the set as false teeth
would be to a robin.

The radio expert in your family
may ask how big the loudspeaker is.
He knows that a twelve-inch speaker
is better than an eight-inch. But on
one line of cheap radios, investigators
found six-inch speakers disguised
with fourteen-inch metal hoods.

There is a branch of the furniture
trade known as "borax." It's a
racket. The idea is merely to sell
wretched furniture at high prices
by tempting the unsuspecting custo-
mer with lures. A few radio dealers
use the same old bait.

Elderly Mrs. Lewis in New York
saw a well known table radio ad-
vertised at a low price, ten dollars.
This was all she could pay. She
showed the advertisement to a friend
who was a trade investigator.

"The worst store in the city," he
snorted. "Better let me go with
you."

The salesman turned on the adver-
tised set, but it was rough and rau-
cous. When Mrs. Lewis expressed
her disappointment, the salesman
snapped the set off and tuned in a
"Little Giant International." It was
much better.

"Here's a real radio. We get $19.50
for these, but this one is shopworn.
You can have it for $16.50 if you'll
take it with you."

The old "switch" trick. Advertise
a famous item at a low price, try not

OCTOBER, 1941

Use pf^ESH#2 and stay fresher!

PUT FRESH #2 under one arm — put your
present non-per spirant under the other.
And then . . ,

I . See which one checks perspiration bet-
ter. We think FRESH #2 will.

2. See which one prevents perspiration
odor better. We are confident you'll
find FRESH #2 will give you a feeling
of complete under-arm security.

3. See how gentle FRESH #2 is — how
pleasant to use. This easy-spreading
vanishing cream is absolutely grease-
less. It is neither gritty nor sticky.

4. See how convenient FRESH #2 is to ap-
ply. You can use it immediately before
dressing — no waiting for it to dry.

5. And revel in the knowledge, as you use
FRESH #2, that it will not rot even
the most delicate fabric. Laboratory
tests prove this.

FRESH #2 comes in three sizes— 50i for
extra-large jar; 15i for generous medium
jar; and 10?S for handy travel size.

Free offer — to make your own test!

Once you make this under-arm test, we're
sure you'll never be satisfied with any
other perspiration-check. That's why
we hope you'll accept this free offer.
Print your name and address on postcard
and mail it to FRESH, Dept. 6-D. Louis-
ville, Ky. We'll send you a trial- ^v^^s
size jar of FRESH #2, postpaid. ^sS?'

Companion of FRESH *i is FRESH #1.
FRESH #1 deodorizes, but does not
stop perspiration. In a tube instead
of a jar. Popular with men too.

"I'm so in l°*e

HAND*!

What is the "Age of Romance" for a Woman's Hands?

There's Sally in her "twenties" — but
don't her hands look older? That's
because they're so often rough. But busy
Mrs. B. in her "fifties" has the gracious
soft, smooth hands that are charming,
romantic, at any age. Her secret? Just —
simple, regular care with Jergens Lotion !

It's almost like professional hand care.
Two ingredients in Jergens Lotion are
used by many doctors to help hard,
harsh skin to rose-leaf smoothness.

Your poor hand skin — so often water-
dried, wind-dried! Jergens Lotion fur-
nishes new softening moisture it needs.
No stickiness! Easy and quick! 50^, 25fi,
10ff— $1.00, at beauty counters. Start
now to use this favorite Jergens Lotion.

WELL-KNOWN PALMIST "PSYCHOANALYZES"
MISS WATSON'S HANDS

^This life line is very interesting,0
says Sonia Barrington, well-known
New York palmist, "It indicates a
changeful, colorful life."

Miss Margaret Watson, herself, writes from
Chicago, "I had a problem to keep my hands
smooth until I began to use Jergens Lotion."

TREE!.. PURSE-SIZE BOTTLE

MAIL THIS COUPON NOW
(Pante on a penny postcard, if you wish)

The Andrew Jergens Company, Box 3524,
Cincinnati, Ohio (In Canada: Perth, Ontario)
Plcam: Kcnd my free purse-Size bottle of the famous
JVi genfl Lotion.

Name

Street

City Stit*

FOR SOFT,
ADORABLE HANDS

to sell it, persuade the prospect to
buy a piece of junk at a higher price.
A dealer can easily ruin the tone of
a good radio so that you won't want
it. This particular radio had been
"gimmicked" by stuffing cotton around
the loudspeaker. The trick would
have worked with Mrs. Lewis, if her
friend hadn't said sternly:

"We don't want a 'Little Giant
Whatsit.' We want the set you ad-
vertised— a new one out of a sealed
carton." Mrs. Lewis has enjoyed her
radio ever since.

Mrs. Klien of San Diego is the wife
of a doctor. She bought a table radio
at a gyp store for eleven dollars and
hurried home to put it in the kitchen.
Mr. Klien came in, spied the receiver
and turned it on. From the wry ex-
pression on his face, the lady saw that
she'd picked a lemon. Back she went
to the store, where the salesman was
delighted to be helpful.

"You have a musical ear, madam.
Why don't you pay five dollars more
— what's five dollars? — and take home
this Midget Marvel?" So Mrs. Klien
found some money in her handbag
and took home a Midget Marvel. A
better set, she thought, but it was
merely in better adjustment. This
sales idea is old, but still thriving;
a radio is put out of whack so that
the customer will bring it back and
pay more. A sharp dealer then sells
something which cost him less.

r\ ON'T believe the dealer who prom-
'-^ ises too much. Be shy when a store
advertises, "Get foreign stations
clearly any time you want them."
Not even the National Broadcasting
Company can do that, as you'll re-
member from some trans-Atlantic
broadcasts you've heard.

But let's suppose you've success-
fully weathered the radio-buying
period, and by sidestepping false
claims and shifty dealers, have ac-
quired a set that was worth the
money. Now you become a target for
all sorts of gadgets meant to clarify,
revive, cut out noises, and eliminate
the aerial. One morning a Wichita
woman heard her doorbell. The man
outside looked like a peddler — and
was.

"Everybody needs this radio at-
tachment," he said, holding out a
simple plug. "Takes the place of
wires strung in trees, brings in all
the stations. Makes a poor radio sound
like a bell. You'll never be sorry."

She was, though. The price was a
dollar and a half — -not much for such
a miracle. The lady had only $1.36 in
change, but the peddler took that —
eagerly. She and her husband gave
the device a trial. It might as well
not have been in the radio at all.
Noting a Chicago maker's trademark
on the plug, they sat down and penned
a scorching letter. The firm's reply
was wonderfully polite, at least:

"We never sell to agents. If this
man sold you our eliminator, he must
have bought it at the ten-cent store."

Another marvelous little device is
the noise filter, to strain out harsh
blasts caused by X-rays, telephones
or elevators. A few expensive filters
work. Thousands that don't are sold
by fast-talking gentlemen on street
corners for a quarter or half a dollar.
These filters have been torn apart.
What do you suppose is inside them?
Nothing.

You've seen the street-corner sales-
man with his big radio on wheels. On
the top are a plug on a wire, switches,
lights, a telephone dial, an electric

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

fan. He turns on the fan and the
radio roars.

"The fan motor causes static," he
explains. He pulls out the plug and
waves the gadget — then plugs the
gadget into the socket and the set into
the gadget. Ah, the noise stops.

But yours won't. The salesman has
a special radio. In it there is a spe-
cial "gimmick" or buzzer to make
static. Note the length of the prongs
on the plug to the set and on the
filter. Those on the filter are short.
The usual plug, with long prongs,
reaches down to a wire and connects
with the buzzer. The filter plug
doesn't reach to that wire. No con-
tact, no noise, no static. The sales-
man pays a lot for his gimmicked
radio— $85 or $90. But he also sells
a lot of filters.

Your radio needs repairing? Now
more troubles begin. If radio repair-
ing has a bad name, no one regrets it
more than the honest repairman. He'll
probably tell you to be shy of the
man who offers an 'estimate free.

Men who were cleaning up business
in Kansas City laid a trap. They
planted a perfectly good radio in a
private home, loosened a single wire,
and sent out a call to twenty-five
"free estimate" repairmen. Only a
few were honest enough to fix the set
1 for a nominal charge. Others wanted
to do all sorts of interesting, creative
work. One would like to install a
"voice coil" at $3, another a cone and
field coil for $5.75. First prize, if any,
i went to the repairman who advised
a new filter condenser at $7.25.

THEN a call was sent to repairmen
1 who made service charges of from
seventy-five cents to $1.50. Ninety
per cent of these men found the
loose wire at once and put it back,
none charging more than $1.50. Only
one had visions — he saw a "burnt-out
condenser" and other horrors, which
he would fix for $6.25. When he had
gone, the experts found that he had
helped matters along — he'd cut a few
wires.

They gave him the job. When the
radio came back the wires had been
neatly mended. There were no new
parts. Accused of faking, he confessed
that the repair work was imaginary.

Chicago is the home of the Insti-
tute of Radio Service Men, whose
members have a good reputation. In
some cities you will find some of its
members. Or you may be lucky
enough to know a young man who is
a radio enthusiast; they grow in
every neighborhood. He can name
a dozen good repairmen.

There are upright dealers and re-
pairmen— plenty of them. There are
also plenty of the other kind. If this
article has helped you to distinguish
between the two, that's a big step
forward in getting rid of the gyps.

WARNING!

You'll split your sides laughing when
you read the fictionization of the
new R-K-0 movie, "Look Who's
Laughing," starring radio's Fibber
McGee and Molly — in the Novem-
ber issue of

RADIO MIRROR

J OCTOBER, 1941

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"Love Story"

{Continued from page 11)

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the other side of the desk. "Simon
Legree, 1941 model," he said. "I
suppose I can do it if I work like hell,
but why should I?"

Joe's voice took on a wheedling
note. "Why shouldn't you, Gerry?"
he queried. "After all, you're in the
business to earn money. Money can
buy the dickens of a lot."

Money can buy a lot — the dickens
of a lot . . . It can buy love and rap-
ture and dreams . . . Gerald Gateson
rose hastily, and a trifle unsteadily, to
his feet.

"I'll see what I can do," he prom-
ised— anything to get away from Joe
Mallaby's owlish, piercing gaze and
his vehemence. "I'll give you a call
in the morning."

Joe said, "You're a prince, Gerry,
and I'll see that you don't regret it.
I'll do as much for you, next time — "
He hesitated, a shade self-consciously.
"Say, I've jotted down a couple of
slick ideas — they may give you a
lift with your plot."

Gerald's voice was bitter when at
last he spoke. "Keep your ideas,
Joe," he grated, "I don't want them
— or need them. I've got too blame
many ideas, as it is!"

TOO many ideas, eh? As Gerald left
the towering office building and
stepped into an avenue that was
painted yellow with hot, late after-
noon sunshine, the ideas buzzed
around in his brain, like angry hor-
nets. They hopped up and down and
stung him. He pulled his hat, vicious-
ly, over one eye and started walking
in the direction of his flat, and the
ideas beat a sharp staccato marching
tune. Unfortunately they weren't
ideas that would jell into the form of
a dramatic romance. They were ideas
that wouldn't jell at all. They were
impossible ideas of letters that a fel-
low might write to a girl who didn't
give a hang, any more. They were
ideas for impassioned, purposeless
speeches that might turn a woman
aside from her fixed desire to marry
a thick-necked, thick-waisted multi-
millionaire.

"Be your age, darling," Dorothy had
said, "this is the sort of a chance a
woman only gets once in a thou-
sand lifetimes. And Albert is a
perfectly nice guy, at that."

Albert. Middle-aged. Twice di-
vorced.

"But you said you cared for me,"
Gerald told her blankly. "I bought
you a ring, today. It's in my pocket."

"Albert gave me a ring, today,"
Dorothy told him sweetly. "I'd show
it to you — only it's out being ap-
praised ... A square emerald — it's
huge. Oh, Gerald, don't look so tragic.
We've only known each other a
month."

A month or an eternity?

Gerald Gateson, staring at Dorothy,
remembered their first meeting at Hal
Kirk's penthouse studio. Dorothy, in
filmy green, looking as cool as a let-
tuce leaf on that drowsy, torrid night.
Dorothy, with her corn silk hair
drawn back so tight, over her ears,
that the curls on the nape of her neck

seemed trying, prankishly, to escape.
A month? Gerald had known Dorothy
for a century after their very first
exchange of glances.

They had leaned against the par-
apet at the extreme end of Hal's ter-
race, and talked — while in the back-
ground a rococo little fountain
splashed foolishly. They had talked
until the sky was faintly pink. Doro-
thy was a model, but she had plans for
the stage. Gerald wrote radio scripts,
did he — but how too, too wonderful!
He must write a play for her, some-
time. No, she wasn't interested in
radio. It was more fun to see your
audience — and have them see you . . .
Gerald remembered how he had told
her, fatuously, that it would be cheat-
ing— not to let an audience see her.
They had been together constantly
from that time onward. Breakfast,
lunch, dinner . .. . Gerald's radio
scripts had suffered — more, perhaps,
in quantity than in quality. Agency
men declared that Gateson had gone
haywire — you couldn't get your hands
on him when you needed him — but
Gerald didn't mind. What was work
at a time like this? He was in love
— madly, insanely, burningly in love.
When Dorothy told him that she
might marry him — this at the end of
the first week— he was in the seventh
heaven of delight. When at the end of
the second week, she grew coy and
artful, he was in the depths of despair.

"I'm a fool to go on this way," he
told himself savagely — and continued
to go on.

"You've got to marry me," he raged
at the end of the third week, "or I'll
kill myself."

Dorothy had taken to looking wist-
ful by the end of the third week. Her
eyes stared vaguely through Gerald
— and beyond him.

"Men don't kill themselves because
of love," she said with the serene air
of a child reciting a text. "You're a
writer, Gerry — could you support me,
do you suppose? I mean really sup-
port me?"

Gerald almost felt as though he
were facing a celestial income tax
collector. He wanted to lie magnifi-
cently about his earnings — and found
himself telling the truth, instead.

I'M not a rank beginner, you know,"
he said. "I can give you a nice
apartment and charge accounts at the
best shops, and jam for your bread
and butter. And I can give you a
love that will go on forever, piling
up dividends."

Dorothy murmured, "What a sweet
thing to say, Gerry!" She added,
"I met a man a few days ago. His
name is Albert Kelsy. He's a multi-
millionaire."

Gerald nodded. "I've seen the
chap around town," said Gerald.
"Looks rather like a toad, at times.
. . . Dotsy, let's go to Rio on our honey-
moon— they're running some swell
boats to Brazil — now that the Euro-
pean trade is shot — "

But Dorothy had spoken a shade
petulantly. "Bert has two yachts," she
said . . . Bert.

NEXT MONTH: A complete Radio Novel — Joyce Jordan, Girl Interne

The Exciting and Thrilling Story of a Woman Doctor —

in the November RADIO MIRROR

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

The blow fell swiftly. So swiftly
that Gerald's heart was cut out of
his body before he was aware of the
knife. Dorothy, meeting him for
cocktails, had demanded champagne,
instead.

"This is an occasion," she told
Gerald.

"Any time when I'm with you is an
occasion," Gerald rejoined. He won-
dered why Dorothy made his every
remark seem so ponderous.

Dorothy said, "But this is a special
occasion, my pet. I'm engaged."

It was then that Gerald mentioned
the presence, in his pocket, of a newly
bought ring. And it was then that
Dorothy told him about the square-
cut emerald that was out — being ap-
praised.

At first — at the very first — Gerald
thought it was a joke. He laughed
until his shoulders were shaking and
there were tears in his eyes. Then
he stopped laughing, but the tears
remained.

"It's really not funny," he said.
"That's a cruel form of humor,
Dorothy."

Dorothy told him, "I'm not being
funny, I'm being very serious." She
regarded him gravely. "Of course,
Gerry, we can go on being friends. We
can see a lot of each other — " Finally,
when Gerald didn't make any re-
sponse, she suggested, "Why don't you
go out and take a nice long walk,
Gerry, and clear the cobwebs from
your brain?"

So Gerald went out and walked. He
walked through the afternoon and
the twilight and until the dawn came
up like thunder over the East River
— where he happened to be at the
time.

WHEN he dropped in at his flat, late
in the morning, to get a clean
shirt, he found seven telephone mes-
sages, five telegrams and a special de-
livery letter — all from Joe Mallaby's
advertising agency.

And so, having realized that life —
oddly enough — goes on, he obeyed the
baker's dozen of summonses. And
not more than an hour later he was
saddled with a rush order to write —
irony of ironies — a love story.

Sitting in front of a typewriter, try-
ing to compose, is not easy when a
hornets' nest has been let loose in
the region between one's ears . . .
Gerald Gateson covered a page with
variations of her name — Dorothy,
Dotsy, Dotsy darling, Dorothy Gate-
son, Mrs. Dorothy Kelsy, Mrs. Albert
Kelsy . . . Then he tore up the page
and started another one. On the
second page he wrote the vivid de-
scription of a girl who had pale hair
that lay in curls, like silver gilt bells,
at the nape of her neck. That page
wouldn't do, either. The third page
was an impassioned letter — but it
sounded so unreal, so sophomoric, that
Gerald ripped it into shreds. After
the third page he merely sat back —
with his hands idle on the keys — and
wondered what he should do.

There seemed to be several alter-
natives. First, there was always sui-
cide. Of course, Dorothy had told
him that men didn't kill themselves
for love . . . but he'd show her! No,
by God, he wouldn't!

Next there was the trip south. Peo-
ple weren't going south now, eh? Then
he'd go north. His direction didn't
matter much — neither did his desti-
nation.

Perhaps— he toyed with this thought
— he would kill plump, complacent

OCTOBEB, 1941

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Albert Kelsy— that would be a logical
solution. But, reason argued, why go
to the electric chair for erasing such
a rotter? However, if he could see
Dorothy and threaten her with this
plan, it might be — effective . . . All at
once his pulses were hammering —
if he could see Dorothy. .

As if he were a marionette worked
by wires, Gerald was up from in
front of the typewriter. He'd go to
see Dorothy. Not to threaten — not
that — but to plead his cause once
more. Perhaps now that more than a
day had passed, he'd meet with suc-
cess. Anyway, it was worth trying.

Dorothy lived in Greenwich Village.
On the outskirts of the village, rather.
She lived in one of those remodeled
houses that crowd their way into
every downtown street; houses cut up
into arty one-room, three-room and
four-room suites. As he rang the
bell marked with her name, Gerald
was aware that he seldom called for
Dorothy in her own home — it was
always at a restaurant, or a roof,
or at some one's studio that they
met.

The bell echoed off into the dim
distance of a dark hallway and the
echo died. Gerald waited, while a
lost, hungry feeling made his diges-
tive apparatus quivery and uncertain.
And then, just as he was about to
turn away — no power on earth could
have made him ring again— there
came that eerie clicking sound which
stands for open sesame. So Gerald
turned the polished brass knob and
went into the house.

Dorothy lived upon the second floor
in the back of the house. As Gerald
climbed the uncarpeted stair he won-
dered whether it were the weight of
his shoes or the pounding of his
heart that made so much noise.

One flight — and a pause. Not for
breath, for composure. Two flights,
and her door, staring him in the face.
Gerald caught himself muttering sen-
tences— foolishly, almost hysterically
— before he ventured to knock. What
would he say, he wondered? Some-
thing blatant and casual, like "So
this is Paris?" Or should he say in a
stern voice, "I've come to deliver an
ultimatum!" Then the door flew open
abruptly and he blurted out, "Dear-
est!" and stopped dead, for it wasn't
Dorothy who stood upon the thresh-
old. It was a slim, sandy-haired girl
in a straight gray frock. A girl who
held a froth of orchid chiffon over
her arm, and whose right middle
finger wore a thimble.

The girl regarded him in a puzzled
fashion and then she smiled and said
—"You must be Gerry. Come in, do."

Almost before he knew it, Gerald
was in a room filled to overflowing
with odds and ends of lingerie. And

the girl was saying —

"Sit down, if you can find a place
to sit. I'm Dotsy's sister."

As he stared at the slim girl Gerald
found himself speaking. He said,
"But I didn't know that Dorothy had
a sister."

The girl laughed. "Dorothy is one
of those people," she told him, "who
seem entirely disconnected with such
commonplace things as kinfolk . . .
I know what you mean, exactly. You
never felt she had parents, or had
been born, even. You were too sure
that she appeared from out of a birch
tree in a forest. Dryad stuff."

"Exactly," admitted Gerald.

"As a matter of fact," said the girl,
"there are only the two of us. Dotsy
and myself. My name is Ellen—"

"You're her kid sister?" queried
Gerald. He wondered if his fight for
articulation were noticeable.

"Heavens, no," laughed the girl. "I'm
Dotsy's older sister. I'm a school
marm — but the school is in the throes
of a measles epidemic and I'm having
a vacation . . . Lucky the vacation
should happen right now, too, what
with Dotsy getting married — " Her
voice became stilted. "I'm sorry,"
she murmured. "That was stupid of
me."

"Don't be sorry," said Gerald. He
added quite against his own voli-
tion, "She's surely getting married?"

"Uh-huh," nodded the sandy-
haired girl. "Do you mind very
much if I get on with my sewing?
I must put every bit of this under-
wear in order."

"Why, no — go ahead," Gerald mut-
tered. "I suppose it's a trousseau?"

Ellen laughed. "Not exactly," she
said, "but it will tide Dotsy over un-
til she and her Albert get to a place
where bigger and better trousseaux
can be bought."

The thought of Albert Kelsy—
thick-necked Albert Kelsy — buying
Dorothy a trousseau was almost more
than Gerald Gateson could bear.

"It's rotten," he burst out. "Of
course she doesn't realize — but she's
selling herself — "

"She is," agreed Ellen. Just that,
nothing more.

All at once Gerald was up from his
chair — was striding across the lit-
tered space that separated him from
Dorothy's older sister.

"Listen here, Ellen," he grated,
"we've got to do something. We can't
let this go on. It's — it's an atrocity.
A crime . . . We can't let this go on."

Ellen looked up briefly from her
sewing. "Why can't we?" she queried.
"Dorothy's got something to sell —
youth, glamour, beauty. Albert has
purchasing power — "

"But Dotsy loves me," Gerald heard
himself shouting. "We were going

S"yMMZ~-

ANN GILLIS — who plays Judy in NBC's Tuesday night program, A
Date with Judy. Ann was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, fourteen
years ago. When she was very little she went with her parents to
Santiago, Chile. Her father died there and her mother brought her
back to the "States," to live in New Rochelle, N. Y. Ann was such
a talented little actress, even then, that when she was nine she
and her mother headed for Hollywood, and almost at once Ann got
the coveted leading role in "Tom Sawyer." She's been in many pic-
tures since, one of her recent ones being "Nice Girl," in which
she played Deanna Durbin's sister. She goes to school right on
the movie lot, and her favorite study is mathematics, she says.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

to be married. We'd have lived to-
gether until we were old, old
people. . . ."

Ellen bit off a thread with the click
of firm, white teeth.

"Don't you believe it," she told
Gerald. She added after a brief
pause, "I shouldn't bite threads,
really. All the dentists say that it
breaks the enamel."

Gerald's voice had quieted down,
miraculously. "Do you think Dotsy
didn't love me?" he asked. "Why,
one night at the Rainbow Room she
said — "

"Forget it, Gerry," advised Ellen.
"You don't mind if I call you Gerry,
I hope?" She hesitated slightly and
then —

"I don't believe you understand
Dotsy," she said slowly. "I don't be-
lieve that you ever did understand
her . . . Maybe I'd be doing you a
kindness if I explained — "

Gerald started to speak and
changed his mind. He stared vaguely
at a spot on the wall, above Ellen's
sandy head. As if in a daze he heard
her voice going on.

"My sister," said Ellen, "was al-
ways rather — breath-taking. Even as
a youngster, in school, she was — a
riot . . - Her hair, for instance — it's
natural. She scarcely uses a drop of
peroxide — "

"Dotsy's hair — " muttered Gerald.

ELLEN went on. "She always had
charming clothes to wear to class-
es," said Ellen. "Mother went without
necessities so that Dotsy could look
like a little princess. I was only three
years older, but pretty soon I didn't
mind having patched elbows — if it
meant that Dotsy might own an extra
dress . . . When I was nineteen, and
she was sixteen, I didn't even mind
having her steal the only serious beau
that ever happened to me . . . She
didn't really want him — the excite-
ment was all finished in a couple of
weeks — and I got over wanting him."

Gerald said, "A girl of sixteen
doesn't know what it's all about."

Ellen laughed. Her laughter was
easy, tolerant.

"Dotsy was born knowing what it's
all about," she said. "When she de-
cided to come to New York she was
only eighteen, but she hadn't any
scope for her talents in our little mid-
western town . . . My father was
dead by then, and mother was rather
ill. We'd been saving money for an
operation — " She stopped, and sewed
furiously for a space of minutes.
Finally Gerald, unable to endure the
thick silence, said —

"For God's sake don't stop in the
middle of a sentence!"

Ellen told him ruefully, "It's one
of my worst habits, I'm afraid. You
see, I was crazy about my mother . . .
Well, you can't send a girl to New
York without some sort of a stake,
and mother might have died, anyway.
Some people even die on the operat-
ing table."

There was another long, throbbing
silence. Out of it Gerald spoke.

"If you're trying to imply that
Dotsy selfishly took the money you'd
saved for the operation," he began,
"well, I won't — "

Ellen interrupted. "Oh, of course,
my sister didn't realize," she said.
"Dotsy isn't selfish — she just doesn't
think. She didn't think when she got
in a jam over buying a mink coat on
the installment plan ... It was lucky
I was planning a cruise at the time.
I had nearly enough cash to settle up."

OCTOBER, 1941

WISHING ***#**^*

Wve looked forward
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A cruise! Rio de Janeiro with —

"We'll go to Rio on our honey-
moon," Gerald had told Dorothy.
"They're running some slick boats — "
And Dorothy had murmured, "Bert
has two yachts . . ."

Two yachts. Gerald's voice was
harsh and strident. "I've no doubt
that Albert Kelsy will pay you back,
with interest, for the mink coat," he
told Ellen. "And he'll probably take
you cruising on one of his yachts.
You're the bride's sister."

CLLEN laughed — she was given to
*- laughter, this Ellen. "Oh, my dear,"
she said, "I'll never meet Albert! I've
never met any of Dotsy's men, since
she left home. That is, except you
. . . And you must admit that you
were 'an accident!"

You were an accident . . . Strange
how words can eat, like acid, into a
man's ego.

"Oh, I was an accident, all right,"
said Gerald slowly. "Listen here,
Ellen . . . When is Dorothy planning
to marry that oaf, Kelsy? Maybe if
she waits a month she'll be tired of
him. Maybe, if I just sit back and
don't butt in, she'll change her
mind — "

Ellen laid aside the fluff of chiffon
upon which she was sewing. "Gerry,"
she said, "you might as well know
now, instead of later. Ellen and Al-
bert aren't going to wait — neither of
them wants to wait. And, after all,
there's no real reason why they
should — " She paused and after the
space of a dozen heavy pulse beats,
Gerald spoke.

"Then?" breathed Gerald. "Then?"

Ellen's voice was very gentle when
at last she made answer. "They're
probably being married at this very

moment," she said. "Don't feel too
badly, Gerry. Dotsy wasn't for you
... If you'd written a 'Gone With the
Wind,' perhaps, it might have been
different. Or if you had a private in-
come or a Hollywood contract — she
was always a little movie struck."

Gerald heard himself saying,
"She'd film like a million dollars,"
and Ellen nodded.

"Maybe Albert Kelsy will buy a
producing company for . her — or a
Broadway production," she said.
"He's got money enough to buy —
anything . . . Why, Gerry . . . Why,
you poor boy . . . Come here!"

Oddly enough, Gerald Gateson
found himself with his head pressed
against a shoulder that wasn't as
slim and rigid as a severe gray frock
would make a fellow believe. After
a long time he gave a shuddering
sigh and heard a voice saying, very
tenderly —

"Here, use this for a hankie."

Gerald clutched at something as a
drowning man clutches at a life pre-
server. He didn't realize until much
later that the something was an inti-
mate chiffon garment in a delicious
shade of orchid.

It was quite a while later that Ger-
ald said huskily, "You're treating me
like one of your scholars — "

Ellen patted him briefly on the
cheek. "Oh, no, I'm not," she said.
"I wouldn't dare touch one of my
children, right now. You see they're
quarantined — and I've never had the
measles."

Gerald spoke slowly. As he spoke
he scrambled to his feet. "You have
a way of rationalizing things," he
said, "haven't you? Of making
maudlin speeches become sensible. Of
putting the skids under sentiment."

Ellen didn't get angry. She merely
nodded in thoughtful agreement.

"I suppose I have," she said. "You
see, my whole life's been made up of
rationalizing things—" She hesitated.
"When Dotsy was born, a neighbor
woman had me out on the porch — I
was only a wee tot. We sat there —
I was on her lap. And then suddenly
a little cry — a demanding, imperious
little cry — cut through the silence.
And I said, 'I'm not, any more.' It was
my first attempt at being rational."

"What did you mean?" asked
Gerald.

Ellen said, "That's what the neigh-
bor woman wanted to know, and
years later I was able to explain.
Why, Gerry, I meant that I wasn't
the baby any more. I'd been an only
child until then."

Gerald Gateson laughed. It was a
rough, mirthless laugh.

"I'm not the baby any more, either,"
he said. "And I guess Dotsy is — is
married, by now." His voice lowered
an octave. "She's so sweet," he said,
"so darn sweet! I'm the unluckiest
guy in the world ... I wish I were
dead."

Ellen told him, "Don't you dare
say a thing like that. Why, you're
lucky!"

COR a brief moment Gerald was
' shocked into silence. Then he spoke.

"If you were a man and said a
thing like that, I'd knock you down,"
he told Dorothy's sister.

Ellen reached forward and laid her
hand on his arm. Gerald was
astounded to see that her fingers were
shaped like Dorothy's fingers — slim
and tapering. Struck by a new idea,
he raised his eyes to Ellen's face and
saw that her nose — save for a nut-

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

meg sprinkling of freckles — was like
Dorothy's nose. The way in which
her hair grew against her forehead
was like Dorothy's hair line, except
that Ellen's hair was sandy instead of
pale gold. But Ellen's eyes — they
weren't Dorothy's. There was some-
thing warm and homey about Ellen's
eyes — they weren't jewel eyes like
Dorothy's, sparkling between long
black lashes. They were cozy, com-
fortable eyes, the color of freshly
made gingerbread.

"If you were a man," he began
again lamely, but Ellen interposed.

"Oh, you misunderstand me," she
told him hurriedly. "I didn't mean
lucky that way."

GERALD stared into those warm
eyes. "Oddly enough I believe
you," he said. "You're not a cat,
Ellen. Just how did you mean it?"

Ellen explained. Simply, as if she
were telling a lesson to a class.

"Dotsy has always been beautiful,"
she said. "She's always been radiant.
She's like a candle, Gerry. You know,
luminous . . . She deserves a perfect
setting for her beauty — because such
beauty is rare. She deserves some-
ting like a — a solid gold candelabra.
We, you and I, are only a pair of pew-
ter candlesticks."

"So what?" asked Gerald. He didn't
intend to sound slangy — "So what?"

Ellen went on with the lesson.
Gerry felt that she was reducing it
to words of one syllable for his
benefit.

"We're a pair of pewter candle-
sticks," she repeated, "too dull and
un-exciting and everydayish to hope
to hold Dotsy for very long. But we
were lucky to have held her for a

little while. She's exquisite, Gerry.
There aren't many people as ex-
quisite as Dotsy — and the world is
full of people like us!"

Gerald said, "I don't see — "

Ellen told him, "Let me finish,
Gerry. Certain people, in this life,
are destined to be the candlesticks.
Their purpose is to hold up a glowing
torch for the rest of the world to see
. . . And, when the torch is gone, the
candlesticks aren't resentful." Her
voice quickened until the words were
tumbling over one another. "I don't
regret my drab childhood, with the
patched dresses, or the beau I lost,
or the trip I didn't have. Since years
have softened the blow, I know that
mother is happier in heaven . . . May-
be, now that Dotsy is settled, if
she stays settled, I'll find some way
to create a little synthetic light
on my own hook. Maybe you'll be a
better writer because the hem of
beauty's dress has brushed you, in
passing."

A better writer — a better writer?
Because the hem of beauty's garment
had brushed the soul, in passing . . .
All at once, and as if from out of no-
where, Gerry saw the outlines of a
story that he — a better writer already
— was aching to set down on paper.
It would be the story of a girl, an
older sister . . . Given a chance, at
last, to produce her own light and
warmth . . . No longer carrying the
candle high for someone else! Gerald
Gateson was thinking of the direc-
tions that Joe Mallaby — the agency
man — had sketched for him earlier in
the day. "A love story," he had said.
"And it must be colossal . . . The best
ever . . . You won't lose by it!"

A love story? Would Ellen — Doro-

thy's sister — have one of her own?
What would happen to Ellen now that
she no longer dwelt in a reflection
of glory? Would a hairdressing shop,
and smart new clothes create for her
a new personality and a wider hori-
zon line? Would some man learn to
care for her, perhaps? Marry her —
perhaps? Well, thought Gerald sav-
agely, that man had better be pretty
regular — or else! Already he felt
the vague stirrings of a keen jealousy
for the interloper.

Ellen asked, cutting his reverie into
fragments — "Where are you going,
Gerry?" and Gerald Gateson realized,
with a slight sense of shock, that he
was halfway to the door.

"Why," he said briefly, "I'm going
back to my flat. I've a job to do,
Ellen — a rush job. I must deliver
it by noon tomorrow."

"1 see," murmured Ellen. She
threaded a needle with orchid col-
ored silk. She held the needle very
close to her eyes and bent her head
over it — "I see . . ."

Gerald said, his hand on the door
knob, "Ah, but you don't!" He added,
as he swung open the door, "How
long will you be here, Ellen? In
town, I mean?"

ELLEN told him, "There's no way of
knowing, Gerry. But I'll be here
until the quarantine is lifted."

"So!" said Gerald Gateson. He
heard himself laughing. An alien
sound, maybe — but still it was laugh-
ter. "Well, when I've finished my
job tomorrow, I'll give you a — " he
started to say a ring and changed
hastily to phone call . . . "Maybe," he
added, "we can have dinner to-
gether."

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What's New from Coast to Coast

(Continued from page 49)

Jack Logan of station WJAS in
Pittsburgh is a success as both an
announcer and comedy stooge.

Pittsburgh — Jack Logan, station
WJAS' popular announcer, made a
whirlwind entry into radio — and then
almost found himself out of it before
he'd really got in.

Eight years ago some amateur ac-
tors sat in a small radio studio in
Charlottesville, Virginia, waiting for
their director, who was going to or-
ganize them into a radio stock com-
pany. But the director was critically
ill, and sent a substitute instead —
young Jack Logan, a student at the
University of Virginia who knew a
little about acting but nothing at all
about radio. His lack of knowledge
didn't bother Jack, though, and he
organized the group and in two weeks
was directing them in scripts he'd
written himself. The station manage-
ment was impressed, and hired him
as a staff writer.

Being a staff writer wasn't as good
as it sounded, Jack soon discovered.
He worked twelve or thirteen hours a
day for fifteen dollars a week. Fi-
nally he told the boss he'd quit if he
didn't get a raise. The boss countered
by refusing the raise but putting Jack
on the air as an announcer. Just
about this time the depression put
an end to Jack's college career, so
he stayed with the station, realizing
that in the long run announcers made
more than writers — in Charlottesville,
anyway.

From Charlottesville he went to
one or two other stations, but in 1935,
when he was in Pittsburgh on a
visit, he heard that WJAS, the CBS
station there, needed an announcer.
He applied for the job, and got it.
Now, after six years at WJAS, he's
Pittsburgh's most popular announcer,
best known for his work and comedy
stooging on the Wilkens Amateur
Hour. He also writes and broadcasts
news, and does educational and spe-
cial events shows.

Jack was born in Staunton, Vir-
ginia, in 1916. He's been completely
bald since his thirteenth birthday, but
doesn't feel sensitive about that fact
since his bare pate is the object of
frequent comedy on the Wilkens
program. People who think they're
"big shots" make him yawn and per-

sons with bad postures irritate him,
but it takes a lot more than that to
make his hair stand on end.

* * *

Pity the staff of KNX, the CBS out-
let in Hollywood. Every Friday KNX
is the scene of broadcasts by Hedda
Hopper, Louella Parsons and Jimmy
Fidler — rival Hollywood gossip col-
umnists all. It's the CBS people's
duty to keep the three from getting
into each other's hair, lest the three-
cornered feud that slumbers there
burst into open warfare. Because,
while the fireworks would certainly
be pretty to watch, somebody might

get scorched.

* * *

Styles this summer have been
strictly feminine, according to scouts
posted in the lobbies of NBC's Chica-
go studio. To date, not a single pair of
slacks has been spotted on the limbs
of feminine radio stars. This is a com-
plete reversal of last year's fashion,
when an average of two out of five
girls wore them to daytime rehearsals.

In the hat department, most fav-
ored style is the huge cartwheel.
Blonde Audrey Totter, of the Ma
Perkins and Road of Life casts, has a
big black felt which she ties, Gibson-
girl fashion, with an ethereal bit of
yellow tulle. Which is all very well,
but those big hats cause trouble in the
studio. When two or three girls, each
wearing one of them, cluster around
the microphone they interfere with
each other and cast such a deep shade
that they can't read their scripts. Not
only that, but one sound engineer
claims to have traced a disturbing
echo to a cartwheel hat that was act-
ing as a sounding board.

Several of the girls have showed
up in smart tailored suits. Back from
a California holiday, Mrs. Mel Wil-
liamson, wife of the Wings of Destiny
director, flaunts a "sweetheart" suit
cut from the same material as the gray
flannel worn by her husband, and
with the jacket patterned after his.
She carried out the idea by wearing a
shirt cut like his, and a small copy of
his lapel boutonniere. Evelyn Ames,
the Contented Hour's Lullaby Lady, is
another suitwearer, setting off her
long brownette bob and summer tan
with rose linen and a white silk

blouse.

* * *

Ilka Chase, mistress of ceremonies
on the CBS Penthouse Party program,
just couldn't bear to turn down the
chance of playing a leading role in the
summer-theater tryout of a new stage
play, "Love in Our Time." And that
explains why an early-August broad-
cast of Penthouse Party came from
Westport, Connecticut, where there
isn't a penthouse for miles around.
Ilka persuaded her sponsors to move
the show there for one program, and
was able to act in the new play with-
out disarranging her radio schedule.

* * *

Bob Burns will have a new kind
of program — new for Bob, that is —
when he returns to the air in the fall
for a different sponsor. Instead of
just telling tall stories, he'll play the
leading role in a half-hour comedy
drama. He'll be missed on the Kraft
Music Hall, but it seems he and the
sponsor just couldn't agree on the
salary question any more.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROH

Young Doctor Malone

(Continued from page 33)

had said goodbye, the police would
find the real murderer and everything
would be all right.

Instead, on the following day, they
arrested Veronica and formally
charged her with the murder of her
husband.

"But it's impossible!" raged Lau-
rence Dunham, Jerry's partner in the
Sanitarium and Veronica's brother-
in-law. "No one that knows Ronnie
could ever believe she'd commit mur-
der. Jim Farrell had a wide circle of
acquaintances — people of all sorts.
Aren't those stupid police investigat-
ing them?"

"They say they are," Jerry said
wearily. "They've traced that tele-
phone call he got the night he was
killed. It was only a Mrs. Thomas —
she and her husband met Farrell on
the boat coming up from Rio de Ja-
neiro last year — inviting him and Ve-
ronica to dinner. She says he ac-
cepted, and sounded very cheerful and
ordinary. ... It seems he saw almost
none of his old friends after he got
back from Rio."

Dunham pulled agitatedly at one
end of his neat mustache. "Damned
bad luck, you having dinner with her
that night," he murmured, avoiding
Jerry's eyes.

JERRY walked to the window and
•* stood for a moment gazing out at
the congested cross-town traffic.
Finally he said, "I've been thinking,
Larry — maybe it would be better if
I resigned, here at the Sanitarium."

"Resign? My dear boy, nonsense!"
Dunham said with unnecessary ve-
hemence. Without turning, Jerry
said:

"It isn't nonsense. You know well
enough what a scandal can do to a
high-society place like this. It's bad
enough that Veronica is your wire's
sister, without having your partner
mixed up in what looks like a partic-
ularly sordid love-affair."

"But Veronica is my wife's sister,"
Dunham pointed out dryly. "We're in
this thing — bad luck though it is — to-
gether, and we'll stick together. The
point is that you and Veronica have
nothing to be ashamed of — and
Veronica didn't kill Farrell — and
sooner or later the truth's bound to
come out. That's what we've got to
keep remembering — the truth will
come out."

But this was not so easy to keep in
mind throughout the nightmarish
weeks before the trial. The case
against Veronica fitted together with
horrible precision. The elevator oper-
ator stuck tenaciously to his story
that no one but Farrell and then Ve-
ronica had entered their apartment.
There was a service entrance which
might have been used without his
knowledge, Veronica's lawyer admit-
ted, but that was a negative point. He
could only make the most of it at the
trial.

Worst of all was the fact that Ve-
ronica's fingerprints were the only
ones found on the paper-knife which
had been used to take Farrell's life.
She could not remember how they
had got there, she said; she supposed
she might have tried to pull the weap-
on out.

Jerry did not see Veronica until the
trial began. Her lawyer, George

OCTOBPR 1941

"A DARK SUSPICION
HAS JUST CROSSED MY MIND J"

"Wonder if grandma could have forgotten the rub-
down after my bath this morning ! ! !

"I'll admit I was still too worked up about the soap
in my eye to worry about powder at the time . . .

"By Jupiter, though, come to think of it— I didn't get
a rubdown! It was right out of the tub and on with
my shirt! Not a particle of that delicious Johnson's
Baby Powder did I have! Not even so much as a
hasty dusting!

"I remember now— I thought 'This dressing business
is going mighty fast'. . . Fast— I'll say it was!

"The idea of Grandma thrusting me into a romper
without even one little sprinkle of Johnson's! I'd
just like to tell her how smooth and slick and com-
fortable I haven't been feeling all day!

"Believe me— this is the last time I go visiting with-
out a can of downy-soft, soothing Johnson's clutched
in my fist. A baby can't be too careful!"

"No doubt about it— Johnson's Baby Powder is the
loveliest stuff that ever soothed a baby's prickles!
Fine for chafes, too. And really very inexpensive."

JOHNSON'S
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22^^

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BOB PINS
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Cape, had hinted that a visit to her
would not look well to reporters and
the public. Dunham and his wife saw
her frequently, but their reports were
not cheerful; she was beaten and dis-
couraged, convinced that in remarry-
ing Farrell she had started a chain of
events that would end by ruining not
only her own life but Jerry's as well.

Old, valued patients of the Dunham
Sanitarium were transferring their
allegiance to other nursing homes,
other doctors. Hardly a day passed
that Jerry did not find on his desk a
memorandum asking him to furnish
some other physician with someone's
case history. Once more he made an
effort to resign, but when he saw
how harassed and upset Dunham be-
came at the suggestion he agreed to
wait, at least, until after the trial.

One afternoon he returned home
unexpectedly to find a woman report-
er with Penny, firing questions at the
unsophisticated and flustered old lady.
Later, after he had sent the woman
away, Penny confided that Bun had
not gone to school in two weeks,
ashamed to face the barrage of cur-
iosity from his fellow -students. In
resignation, Jerry made arrangements
to send them both to an Adirondack
hotel until the trial was over.

CO then he was alone. He spent
^ long hours at the Sanitarium, re-
turning to the apartment in the eve-
ning after a meal taken at some res-
taurant— coming in, switching on the
lights hurriedly to banish the dark-
ness of the rooms, trying to read and
finding himself after a time with the
book forgotten on his lap, his thoughts
far away.

He missed Ann terribly. She was
writing every day now, and he read
and re-read her letters, longing to
have her back with him. Still he
stubbornly told her to stay where she
was. His own experiences with re-
porters, with the police sergeant who
had questioned him at Veronica's
apartment the night of the murder
and afterward, even with Veronica's
lawyer and his searching questions —
all these told him that Ann must not
return. He would not subject her to
all that. And there was another rea-
son as well — an obscure one, which he
himself could only feel and not reason
out. Ann had left him because of
Veronica, so now he must vindicate
himself before she came back. And
nothing could bring that vindication
but Veronica's acquittal.

He did not look beyond that. He
did not think what might happen to
himself and Ann if Veronica were not
acquitted.

Suddenly, the trial was beginning.
He sat in the courtroom while a jury
was chosen, while the Prosecuting At-

torney made his opening statement.
Across the room Veronica's head was
bowed, aloof; her face gave no hint of
her thoughts while the Prosecutor
outlined what he expected to prove:

"That James Farrell, after his re-
marriage to the defendant, discovered
an intrigue between her and Dr.
Gerald Malone — that in the quarrel
which followed he threatened to ex-
pose this intrigue — and that in a sud-
den burst of passion she caught up the
paper-knife which lay at hand and
stabbed him. . . ."

Witnesses came — the police ser-
geant, the medical examiner, the fin-
gerprint expert, the neighbors who
had heard the Farrells quarreling, the
elevator boy in the apartment house.
George Cape tried to break down the
elevator boy's testimony.

"But someone could have used the
service entrance without your knowl-
edge?"

"Well . . . they could of, I guess. But
they'd of had to use the stairs right
off the hall. I'd of heard 'em."

"How could you have heard them if
you were taking someone up in the
eljvator at the time?"

"I couldn't," the boy said sullenly
— then more triumphantly, "but only
one party come into the house be-
tween Mr. Farrell and Mrs. Farrell.
That was the only time I was away
from the downstairs hall."

"Then someone could have entered
by the service door and gone upstairs
at that time!"

"Well . . . yes."

Endless questions, cross-questions,
bickerings between attorneys . . . and
the courtroom rustling, murmurous
with people.

The defense offered its witnesses
— the waiter at the restaurant where
Jerry and Veronica had eaten that
night, the cab-driver who had taken
her home . . . Veronica herself.

She was creamy-pale without
makeup, and she answered questions
in a low, controlled voice. Under
Cape's skilful, sympathetic guidance
she told of her divorce from Farrell,
her remarriage, her movements that
night.

Then the Prosecuting Attorney:

"Did Mr. Farrell know Dr. Malone?"

"Yes. They had met, once."

"Did you tell him you were going
to have dinner with Dr. Malone?"

"No. He was out, I had no chance
to tell him."

"Why did you wish to dine with Dr.
Malone, so soon after your marriage?"

"Dr. Malone and I are — are old
friends."

"Ah, yes. Now, Mrs. Farrell — "

Questions, questions, questions, re-
turning always to the mention of "Dr.
Malone," until at last the Prosecuting
Attorney shouted:

3^/^&&oZ-

BURL IVES — who is heard with his "gittar" frequently over CBS,
and regularly Saturday mornings on his own Coffee Club program.
He comes to radio after years of touring the United States on foot
or by any other handy means of transportation, collecting American
■folk-sonqs. He'< been a rover ever since, two months before finish-
ing college, he decided he didn't want to graduate and be a foot-
ball coach. Although he loved football he loved singing and wander-
ing around more. So he left, taking all the money he had — fifteen
dollars — his guitar, and an extra pair of slacks. Singing in hotels or
taverns, he made enough to live on, and that was all he wanted.
He has settled down in New York now, but maybe not for long.

BADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

» "Isn't it true, Mrs. Farrell, that you
were in love with Dr. Malone?"

Veronica had been twisting in her
chair; now she threw her head back
and stared wildly at the attorney.
"Yes!" she cried. "Yes, yes, yes ! But
Jim didn't know it, he wouldn't have
cared if he had — all he wanted was
my money — "

Sobbing, she buried her face in her
hands, while reporters slipped from
their seats and ran for the door. Court
was adjourned for the day.

The following morning Jerry was
called to the stand. He was sluggish
with fatigue, for he had slept hardly
at all, and it did not seem possible that
this was he — Gerald Malone — on a
witness stand giving testimony in a
sensational murder case. George
Cape's questions, like those he had
put to Veronica the day before, were
politely phrased, easy to answer, but
the Prosecutor in his cross-examina-
tion was arrogant, ironic, openly dis-
believing of everything Jerry said.

"Didn't you and your wife, Dr.
Malone, auarrel over your friendship
with Mrs? Farrell?"

"No!"

"Yet you are separated?"

"Mrs. Malone is living in Chicago
just now, yes. We are not separated."

"She has been in Chicago for more
than two months, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but—"

"Dr. Malone. You heard Mrs. Far-
rel say yesterday that she was in love
with you. Had you been aware of her
feelings toward you before then?"

GEORGE CAPE answered Jerry's
agonized glance; he was on his
feet protesting to the judge, "This
line of questioning has nothing what-
ever to do with the case!"

"Objection over-ruled," the judge
said dryly. "Witness will answer the
question."

"Yes, I knew," Jerry said, every
word an agony. "But Mrs. Farrell un-
derstood that I did not love her."

"Yet you invited her out to dinner
only a week after her marriage!"

Jerry did not lose his temper. He
did not create a sensation by "break-
ing" on the stand. But it was only
through the most rigid self-control
that he refrained, and he stepped
down at last feeling bruised and stiff
all through his body.

There was only one more witness,
the Mrs. Thomas who had called Jim
Farrell the night of his death to in-
vite him and Veronica to dinner. She
was a pretty, faded little woman
whose testimony was so unimportant
that introducing it at all impressed the
jury as a sign of weakness, of desper-
ation, on the part of the defense.

A black fog of depression settled
over Jerry as the attorneys began
their summing-up. The room was
stifling, and the constant muted mur-
mur of the crowd rang in his ears.
Abruptly, he stood up and left. There
was nothing more he could do — noth-
ing any of them could do — but wait
for the verdict.

The next day their waiting was
over. The verdict came — "guilty."

Jerry saw Veronica, standing to hear
the verdict, sway and put a hand on
the table to steady herself, then stand
perfectly still, the immobile center
of a swirl of movement all about her.
Suddenly, Jerry was shaken by fury.
The fools! Couldn't they have seen
past the carefully interlocking struc-
ture of evidence and find the truth?

The clamor in the courtroom

OCTOBER, 1941

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What skipper wouldn't find smooth sailing with a crew like Katherine
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Mills, west coast director, and he's named his yacht "Burrapeg."

mounted, the sharp raps of the bailiff's
gavel impotent against it. At its
height another, sharper sound from
the hallway cut all the noise off for
an instant as if by a knife. A woman
screamed, and a blue-coated police-
man burst through the swinging
doors.

"One of the defense witnesses — Mrs.
Thomas! She's shot herself!"

George Cape was on his feet, shout-
ing to make himself heard. "Your
Honor! I request a recess at this
time until tomorrow, when I hope to
have new evidence to offer!"

Swiftly, the judge granted the re-
quest, rose and left the courtroom.
Police surrounded the quiet figure
of a pretty, faded little woman in the
hallway.

In an oddly hushed, sober court-
room, the next morning, Austin
Thomas told the story of why his wife
had killed Jim Farrell.

"It is my fault she is dead," he said
in a voice that shook with emotion.
"I advised her not to take the blame
for the murder because I thought Mrs.
Farrell would be acquitted. I should
have known — "

He licked his dry lips, gazing out
over the attentive, uplifted faces.
"We met Jim Farrell on the boat com-
ing up from Rio last year," he re-
sumed. "I was older than my wife, I
was glad to see her dancing and hav-
ing a good time with Farrell. I didn't
realize that things went — farther than
that.

"Two months ago Farrell tried to
blackmail Helen — my wife. He had
letters that she had written to him,
and he threatened to let me see them.
She was terrified — tried to convince
him she couldn't get the money for
him. She should have realized he was
bluffing, particularly after he married
Mrs. Farrell again. But she didn't.
She called him, that night, and ar-
ranged to meet him in his apartment,
hoping she could get the letters from

him. I guess she didn't know exactly
what she could do. He told her to
come up the back stairs, and she did,
waiting until the elevator boy was out
of the way.

"Farrell wouldn't listen to her. He
said he'd send me the letters the next
day if she didn't pay. And Helen was
desperate — out of her mind. She
snatched up the paper-knife and
stabbed him. Then she ran away.
When she came home she was hysteri-
cal, too upset to keep from telling me
the whole story. And I — I told her
not to confess, but to wait. I said no
one would ever be accused of the mur-
der, and when Mrs. Farrell was ar-
rested I said they wouldn't convict
her. It's my fault — "

His face working, he was unable to
go on, and the case of the State vs.
Veronica Farrell was ended.

JERRY saw Veronica for a few min-
•* utes in an anteroom. Her quiet
gravity was in startling contrast to
George Cape's beaming excitement.

"Aren't you glad?" Jerry asked.

"No — not particularly," she said
simply. "I don't seem to have any
capacity for emotion left. I keep
thinking of that poor woman, too — "

"You mustn't think of her, or of
anything that's happened."

"No, of course not," she said me-
chanically. Cape had moved away to
the other side of the room; she asked
in a lower voice, "Has Ann come
back, Jerry?"

"She'll be here tomorrow. I tele-
phoned her last night, and she's taking
tonight's train."

"I'm very glad," she said, and for
a few seconds she laid her hand on
his. "You had something very pre-
cious there, you and Ann. I hope you
still have it. Without meaning to, I
did my best to take it away."

"It wasn't you entirely," he told her.
"I think things first began to go wrong
when I gave up my work at the hos-

pital to join Larry in his Sanitarium.
I wasn't being true to myself, and
Ann knew it. Subconsciously, she be-
gan to wonder if I could be untrue to
her, too."

"Perhaps," Veronica agreed. "Don't
let her wonder that any more, Jerry.
Goodbye, my dear. I'm going to leave
New York tomorrow. I may not be
back for a long, long time."

"Goodbye, Veronica."

When he came out of the Criminal
Courts building he went automatically
toward the first in the line of parked
taxicabs. But before he reached it
he swerved and went down the steps
of a subway. Somehow, he wanted
to be near mankind — in the midst of
it, as he had been in the old days when
he worked in the charity clinic of the
hospital.

Some of this feeling he tried to ex-
press to Ann, the next evening, when
they sat alone in front of the fireplace.
Penny and Bun had returned to New
York, but immediately after dinner,
with elaborate tact, they'd gone off
to the movies.

WITH Ann on a hassock at his feet,
Jerry felt once more that close-
ness— not at all physical, but a com-
plete and satisfying communion of
their thoughts and emotions — which
had once been so important a part of
their life together. They'd lost it in the
last year, but now, miraculously, it
had returned. And Ann understood
what he was trying to say, even with-
out listening to his words.

"You were so right," he confessed,
"when you wanted me to stay at the
hospital, not go in with Dunham — "

Ann pressed her fingers against his
lips. "Don't say that, Jerry," she
begged. "I don't want to be right —
I don't want even to appear to have
that cheap triumph. And I'm not even
sure I was. We've both learned a
good deal. We've made an adjust-
ment that some couples never make.
I don't know," she wrinkled her brow
in concentration, "but I feel as if our
marriage had — moved into a new
phase. A better one, one with more
understanding. I mean — oh, I seem
to think of you now as a human being,
not just as my husband!"

Jerry nodded. "It's hard to express.
But I know what you're trying to say,
because I feel it too."

For a while they were silent, con-
tent to enjoy this new sensation of
completion. Then Jerry said, "All the
same, I'm resigning from the Sani-
tarium and going back into real work.
I don't know just what kind of work,
but I do know it'll be real."

"Yes, Jerry. I'm glad."

"But first," he added, holding her
hands more tightly, "we're going
away, all by ourselves. We're just
getting to know each other — let's
make a good job of it!"

"Go away? Where?"

"What's it matter?" he said with
boyish eagerness. "Florida — the Car-
ibbean— anywhere so long as we can
be together!"

Once Ann, with invincible com-
mon-sense, would have pointed out,
"We can be together right here." But
now, in her new wisdom, she too
caught fire from his enthusiasm. Her
eyes shining, she said:

"Jamaica !"

"And Haiti!"

"And Port-au-Prince . . . Cartagena
. . . Caracas . . ."

But all the magic names they re-
cited were not half so thrilling as
the single word — "together."

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Let Me Forget

{Continued from page 28)

"No — we mustn't stop. Dance faster
— faster — "

Bill stumbled.

"Sorry! That's what I get for not
counting when I dance!"

"It's not your fault, Oliver," I said.
"It's this long veil — you caught your
foot in it, didn't you?"

"You've no veil," he said. "You've
— what did you call me? Oliver?"

He stopped dancing. The dream
shattered. We were in the middle of
the floor at the country club. And
the man was Bill Collins. Unreasoning
terror tore at me.

"You called me Oliver!" he re-
peated.

"No!" I cried wildly. "I didn't! I
couldn't! I called you Bill — your
name's Bill — why should I call you
anything else!"

He began to lead me from the floor,
while people stared, and I clung to
him, sobbing. "I didn't call you
Oliver!" I said. "I won't remember
— I mustn't! Bill, don't ever let me
remember!"

Then the room tilted again, and
grew dark, and everything was blotted
out.

I was in my bed at home when I
woke up, and Bill was gone but Dr.
Chase was there. The next day he
took me to a house in the country and
left me there with Mary Murphy. I
felt just as I had in the weeks before
I opened the dancing school — limp,
unable to think or plan for myself,
drained of every emotion or desire.
I knew now that there was something
knocking at the doors of my mind, de-
manding admittance — something of
unimaginable horror. As long as I
lay still and let other people manage
my life, I was safe. But once I began
to remember. . . .

CUMMER ended, and fall brought its
*" fierce colors to the trees and bush-
es. With the cool days I began to slip
from my soft, warm nest of indiffer-
ence. The world was calling to me
again. The world and — Bill.

I missed him. I knew why he never
came to see me. It was because he
was frightened. All his normal,
healthy instincts had revolted against
me. He thought I was crazy.

Perhaps I was.

Dr. Chase visited me once a week.
He was always kind and friendly,
always very casual, but I knew why
he came. It was to watch me.

"You said I'd have to earn my liv-
ing," I reminded him once. "Who is
paying for this house? And Mary's
wages?"

He avoided my gaze. "Don't worry
about that right now," he said.
"You've been too ill to take care of
yourself, but soon you'll be well
again and then you can go back to
work."

"Is Bill Collins paying?" I asked.

"Well — yes," he admitted.

"He mustn't," I said in agitation.
"I won't let him. I'm going back
to work now — right away. There's
no reason I can't, I'm perfectly strong
and well."

"Perhaps you are. But I want you
to stay here, for a little while longer
at least. And Bill does, too."

My brief burst of energy had al-
ready spent itself. I sank back. "All
right," I said listlessly.

But each day brought, impercept-

ibly, an added impulse to face the
world again, and by late December
I had made up my mind to return
to Grayfields and the dancing classes
after the first of the year. I couldn't,
I told myself, remain here, on the
scant fringes of life. I must leave, no
matter what effect leaving would have
upon me.

Then, on Christmas Day, Bill came
to see me — his arms loaded with par-
cels, his eyes begging for understand-
ing and forgiveness.

"I couldn't come sooner," he said.
"Dr. Chase wouldn't let me. He said
he wanted you to be alone until you
were feeling all right again. So I
obeyed orders, but — " he gave a rue-
ful grin — "it wasn't easy."

Happiness and relief- flooded me.
"Then it wasn't because — " I ex-
claimed. "I mean — I thought you
didn't like me any more."

"Like you!" He'd dropped the par-
cels, and now he put his hands on my
arms. "Like you!" he repeated ten-
derly. "Don't you remember I said
I loved you? And I meant it, and
still mean it. I want to take care of
you, Ethel — forever."

I PULLED myself away. Trying to
' keep my voice steady, I said, "But
there's something — strange about me,
Bill. I don't know what it is, myself.
You must have realized it — and now
you're only trying to be kind."

"I'm only trying to be kind to my-
self, because I love you so."

"No, wait," I said. "You must won-
der how much I remember about . . .
about the past. Things that happened
before I knew you. And the answer
is— nothing! I don't remember a
thing, Bill. There must be months,
between the time I got out of college
and the time I came to Grayfields, that
I don't remember at all. That's the
sort of woman you're asking to be
your wife."

"I love the woman I'm asking to be
my wife," Bill said steadily. "Better
than anything in the world. And the
only thing that matters to me is— do
you love me?"

"I do!" I sobbed, pressing my face
against his shoulder. "So very much!
Only—"

"Only nothing, darling," he insisted.
"That's all I wanted to know."

Dr. Chase didn't want us to be
married.

I realized that later in the evening,
when he came in to wish me Merry
Christmas and found Bill there. When
Bill told him our news the briefest
possible expression of alarm flashed
over his face and was gone, succeeded
by his usual friendly smile.

"Will it be a long engagement?" he
asked after a while.

"Not any longer than I can help,"
Bill said. "About three days would
be right, I think" — and we all
laughed. But I thought Dr. Chase
seemed relieved when I protested that
I'd need at least a month.

Only after they'd left did I feel a
moment of that old fear. It wasn't
right, no matter what Bill said, to
marry him while there was still that
dark, terrifying thing waiting outside
the closed doors of my mind. Dr.
Chase knew it, too — that was why he
didn't really want us to be married.

What if I opened the doors, and let
it — whatever it was — in? Could I

fifi

RADIO AND TELEVISION M1RHON

face it down — or would it devour me?

I knew I did not have the courage to
find the answer to that question.

In the morning I put all my doubts
aside. It was easier, then, to tell my-
self that it didn't matter — I could keep
the doors closed forever, and be
happy.

Back in Grayfields, Dr. Chase and
his wife asked me to stay with them
until the wedding, and Mrs. Chase
helped me with all the shopping I
had to do. We didn't buy a wedding
gown, for she insisted on giving me
one that she had. "It was worn by a
very dear friend of the doctor's," she
said, "and I know he'd be very happy
if you'd wear it too."

Busy with my preparations, en-
folded in Bill's love, I was no longer
afraid.

A few days before the wedding,
Mrs. Chase brought the white lace
gown and delicate veil to my room.
Eagerly I tried it on to see if it would
fit. The dress was rather unusual
in style — a close-fitting bodice above a
tremendously full skirt of exquisite
lace.

"It fits you perfectly, my dear,"
Mrs. Chase said. Struck by a smoth-
ered quality in her voice, I looked
at her and saw that she was not smil-
ing, and that spots of rouge stood out
queerly on her pale face. Hurriedly
she went on, "Come over to the mirror
and see."

Wonder ingly, I obeyed, and stood
for a long moment staring at the girl
in the glass. At last I said in a far-
away voice, "Please, Mrs. Chase — will
you leave me alone for a little while?"

I SCARCELY heard the door close
I behind her.

Now memory was coming back. I
closed my eyes, pressed my hand over
them, but I was powerless to stop it.

This was my wedding dress. I had
worn it before. In the incense-
haunted air of a cathedral, beside the
man I loved. And afterwards —
dancing . . .

The strains of a waltz drifted
through the room, growing louder,
stronger. Oliver and I were together,
carried away on the sound, wanting
to dance forever.

"Oh, Oliver, I do love you so!"

"My wife—"

"How wonderful to hear you say
that. My husband!"

The melody lifting us, driving us,
faster and faster . . .

Oliver's voice, breathless — -"Rather
nice, making love to you while we're
dancing. I must do it often, during
the next fifty years."

"Yes. You must. We'll dance and
dance, and you'll tell me how much
you love me, and I'll — Oh, Oliver, I'm
sorry. It's this long veil — you caught
your foot in it, didn't you?"

"No, I—"

"Oliver — you're trembling! Let's
stop dancing!"

"No — I'm all right. Only a little —
dizzy. Help me, Ethel! Don't let me
fall!"

But I was trying to hold him while
he slipped from my arms and the mu-
sic stopped in a sudden jarring crash
and people clustered around us.

"We were so happy," he whispered.
"Dancing ... I love you so— don't let
it stop . . ."

"No, darling, I won't."

A man was kneeling beside him,
ripping open his collar.

"Heart failure," I heard someone
say. "He's . . . dead!"

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WILL MY BABY HAVE
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The First Five Years

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Rainy Day Fun

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What Shall I Buy Before Baby Comes

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and

Mrs. Chase's neat, comfortable
guest-room swam slowly back into
place. I was still in front of the long
mirror, not knowing how long I had
stood there. My ears rang with the
pounding of my heart.

Suddenly, with shaking fingers, I
began to undo the fastenings of the
wedding gown. My suitcase was in
the closet; I tore the door open and
snatched it out, opened it and filled
it with clothes. I dressed in the first
things that came to my hand.

I must go away — at once! The past
had come back to me, and now I knew
why I had feared it so: because I must
live with it, forever. The past and I,
all alone together. Bill would not
want to join that lonely little com-
pany now — we could not let him, the
past and I, because he was the future,
and for us there was no future.

The suitcase in my hand, I turned
toward the door. It opened, and Bill
was standing there.

"Ethel! Dearest — Mrs. Chase told
me you had recognized the wedding
dress — she sent for me. And now you
remember, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember. I remember
everything, and I've got to go. Don't
try to stop me, Bill — please!" I tried
to force my way past his outstretched
arms.

WHY should I let you go? I've
been waiting for you to remem-
ber, hoping that you would. Dr. Chase
told me everything after that night
we went to the dance together. He said
you'd had a terrible mental shock,
that you'd never be cured until some-
thing forced you to remember. That's
why he made me stop seeing you. He
thought loneliness would bring things
back."

Bill was talking rapidly, as if the
torrent of words could hold me in that
room.

"But we left you alone, and nothing
happened. So I persuaded him to let
me marry you. He didn't like it. He
was afraid you'd break down at the
ceremony. That's why we gave you
your old wedding dress. And it
worked! Darling, it worked!"

"Yes," I said hysterically. "It
worked! I remember everything now
— everything I wanted to forget."

"But don't you see? You're free
now! You were always afraid — afraid
of remembering. But now you have
remembered, and there's nothing
more to be afraid of. You were
haunted, and now you're not!"

I fell back a step. "Haunted . . ."
I said. "Yes. You're right. I was."
"Do you — " For the first time, there
was apprehension in his voice. "Do
you still love Oliver so much you can
never love me?"

"Oh, no!" I said without hesitation.
"No, that's all over."
"Then—"

At the question in his voice, the
eager love in his face, all the troubled
confusion of my mind seemed to melt
away like the mists of night under the
brave sun.

"Then," I said strongly, "of course
I don't mind remembering. Because
this, is yesterday — and today — and to-
morrow— and forever. For you and
me."

Meet Henry Atdrich's Sister

on Next Month's Cover of

RADIO MIRROR

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Baby!

(Continued from, page 35)

eyes were loving.

We've been so happy, Peggy Con-
nant thought. On nothing, actually on
nothing. Not even a yacht between
us. Peggy smiled as she walked along
and people turned to look at her.
Not a million dollars in the bank.
Not even ten sometimes. What had
she said to Bill, that day at Luna
Park? Oh, yes.

"I used to think," she had said,
"that when I got married, I'd be go-
ing to the French Riviera, Bermuda,
places like that. And here I am — "
and then she had broken off, sud-
denly, because of the look on Bill's
face and because that wasn't what she
had wanted to say, at all. "No, dar-
ling," she had said quickly, "you don't
understand. I like it. I like the way
we are. I'll bet there are thousands
of women, who have been to all those
famous places, who'd give every
minute of it to be in my place with
someone to love, who loved them.
Women are really awfully simple
people, darling. They want love. And
I love you and I'm happy. Terribly
happy."

AND she was. "Diamond bracelets
Woolworth doesn't sell, Baby."
Bill was always humming that over
and over. That was their theme song.
And it meant something and they'd
look at each other and understand.
What was a diamond bracelet com-
pared to her Popeye? Bill had
knocked over all the balls at Luna
that day and won Popeye for her.
They had debated a long time be-
tween a Kewpie Doll and Popeye and
Popeye had won out. Now, it was on
their dresser. Bill's shirts and socks
and dime cufflinks that never matched
were in the top drawer, and her things
were in the second drawer and Bill
was always mussing up her things,
looking for something of his that
shouldn't have been in her drawer,
at all.

"Bill, will you get out of that
drawer!"

"Okay, honey. Just looking for
something."

"Bill! Look at that drawer!"

"Aw, I don't like you when you
frown, honey. Smile, Baby."

Smile. It was so easy to smile, then.
But now? What will he say when he's
told about the baby? Just the other
night, he was talking about rent and
gas and dentist and light and carfare
and clothes and so on and so on. It
never seemed to end. There just didn't
seem to be any way out. And now,
this. The final blow. A baby.

Where will we get the money?
Where? Must everyone be wonderful
at making money? Isn't there a place
for the little people who don't want
a great deal? Isn't there a place for
the Bills and Peggys? Why must he
be unhappy? Why must he always
be smothered with bills and bills and
bills. We're in such a mess, darling.
Where will we get the money?

Peggy Connant forced herself to
stop thinking about it. She had
walked three blocks out of her way.
There's the baby to think about,
Peggy Connant, think about the baby.
What will he be? Just what sort of a
baby, just what sort of a boy, just
what sort of a man? What did she
want him to be?

She began to notice the people pass-
ing her on the street. Her baby

OCTOBER, 1941

would be one of the people on the
street, some day, maybe like one of
those passing her. She watched their
faces, intently.

A young man came toward her, a
tall, sensitive-faced young man,
carrying a violin case under his arm.
His head was down, he didn't seem
to be noticing anything. He seemed
to be way out of the world of Peggy
and the people around him. A mu-
sician, possibly a great, young musi-
cian. He did have an air of being
somebody, Peggy observed, as he
went by her. Her baby, David, a mu-
sician. David Connant, world's pre-
mier violinist. Maybe.

Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.
That was the way she had said it as
a little girl. Doctor? Yes, maybe.
That would be nice. David Connant,
surgeon. "Oh, yes, he's undoubtedly
the best doctor in the city, Mrs. Con-
nant. You should be proud of him."

A man brushed against her. His
nose glasses were tight against his
face, his mouth was thin and hard,
his eyes worried. Peggy Connant saw
all that in the second he brushed
against her, muttered an apology and
hurried on. He was carrying a brief-
case. A lawyer, a stock broker, per-
haps. She decided he was a stock
broker. David Connant, Connant and
Company, Wall Street. No. No, she
wouldn't like that. Or a lawyer, either.
People had so many troubles and you
became hardened to them and her
David would never be happy that way.

But some lawyers became Presi-
dents. David Connant, solemnly tak-
ing the oath of office, riding in a car
and waving at the people. And mil-
lions and millions of people at the
radio waiting for his voice, waiting
for the words of someone she had
known as a baby, a boy, a young man.
Now, a President.

SHE stopped in front of Conn's Book
Store. In the window were books
and books. She could do a lot of
reading later on. She had always
wanted to catch up on that, so many
fine things she hadn't read, so many
wonderful writers. Writer?

What was it Bill had said once?
Oh, yes, "I could write a book about
us." And she had asked him laugh-
ingly why he didn't and he had
said, "Oh, I guess I wasn't made to
be a writer." But David? Yes,
maybe.

Silly to think of it like this. It. It
was really only it. It wasn't anything
yet. But why not dream? Why not
be silly and happy about it? The pain
wasn't really anything. Mrs. Cohen
had said once, "You forget about the
pain as soon as you see it." Mrs.
Cohen should know, she had seven
of them. But what would Bill say?
Would he be angry?

She was walking very slowly, now.
She was thinking of all the things
she would have to tell David. All the
things that had given her so much
pain, which she could help him avoid.
She was so much wiser than when
she had first married Bill. She had
so much to pass on to her son. He
would be a beautiful child. A beau-
tiful name, David Connant. A beau-
tiful child.

A newsboy was shouting near her.
She wasn't listening to the words,
only to the hoarse, plaintive cry. And
then the headlines of the paper seemed

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BABY HELPS

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How to Take Good Baby

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Just mall stamps or coin (and tell me the ages of your
Children)! addressing Mrs. Louise Branch, Baby Page
Editor Of RADIO & TELEVISION MIRROR, Dcpt. RM104,
205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y.

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to scream out at her, scream louder
than the voice of the ragged, little
boy. War! 700 Lost at Sea. Berlin,
London, Rome. Death! War!

Captain David Connant. But it
would be all over by then. Or would
it? She saw him now, sailing through
the skies. She heard the spit of the
machine gun and saw the plane wob-
bling and then, plunging crazily,
dizzily, down, down! He was calling
for her, calling in a far off voice.
"Mother! Mother!"

"David!"

She felt someone catch her by the
arm. She saw faces blur and then
come back into focus again. Her legs
felt weak, the hand gripping her arm
hurt.

"I'm all right," she heard herself
say.

"You sure?" a male voice, gruff but
concerned.

"Oh, yes. I'm fine."

"What was it, Mister?"

"This young lady gave me quite a
start. She screamed and started to
wobble. I thought she was gonna
pass out."

Screamed? Had she really screamed?
She had to get away from them. She
thanked the man, confusedly, and
walked away, faster and faster.
David! It had all seemed so real.
War! How Bill hated war, how he
hated bloodshed and violence and
killing. "Raise 'em up and blow 'em
up." What would she say if Bill said
that? She felt desperately that she
needed something to say to that, some
answer. A girl, that was it!

DEGGY CONNANT almost stopped
' still. A girl. Funny she hadn't
thought it might be a girl. Yes. Why
not? A girl. She remembered her own
childhood, now. She tried to think
how it was being young and a girl.
What did you do? What did you need?

She remembered, now, in chaotic
snatches, some of her own little-girl
speeches. "Mother, do you think my
dress hangs right? Don't you think I
ought to have it let out a little here?
There's the freshest boy in my class.
Of course, I don't like him. Mother,
can't I go to , the party Saturday?
But, Mother, Mary is a year younger
than I am and she wears lipstick."

Peggy Connant turned off Elder
Street into Paxton Avenue, thinking
about it being a girl. They couldn't
blow it up, if it was a girl. They
couldn't kill it in their wars. Ruth?
No. Nina? No. Betty? No. How
about Carol? Yes, Carol. Carol Con-
nant. It sounded lovely.

What would she be? A debutante?
Well, hardly. A singer? Carol Con-
nant. There was something stagey
about that, something theatrical. Or
the movies, maybe. The beautiful
Carol Connant, now starring in — But
why not just an ordinary girl, like
her mother, somebody to tell about
babies? She'll ask me about for-
mulas and feeding, Peggy Connant
thought, and I'll be very wise and
I'll know just what to do and what to
tell her. Bill will be proud of her.
Our daughter, Bill.

"Hey, there, Mrs. Connant!"

Peggy Connant stopped. She looked
around. It was her block. She
turned around, confused. She'd
walked right by the house. What a
fool thing to do. The janitor, Mr.
Swenson, was standing there, smiling.
She felt a little silly.

"What's the matter?" the janitor
asked. "You walked right by. You
forget where you live?" He was teas-

riAOIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

ing her now. He was a tall, spare man
with a little bit of blond hair left
and a very thin face. He was a
bachelor. He had been a sailor once
and he had never had a wife or a
baby. He'll never have a wife or a
baby, Peggy thought, looking at him

"What's the matter?" the janitor re-
peated. "You all right?"

"Oh, I'm all right," she said. "Guess
I was dreaming or something."

THE janitor smiled. "Sure like to
' dream this weather away. Been a
regular scorcher, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Peggy said, not really lis-
tening, "yes, it has." She sat down
wearily on the steps and looked up at
Mr. Swenson. The street was quiet.
All along the shady side of the block,
people were sitting on steps, accepting
the heat, hating to go in to hot,
stuffy rooms. "It's cooler out here,'
Peggy said to Mr. Swenson. "I don't
like to go in."

"Your husband's home, Mrs. Con-
nant," Mr. Swenson said. "You're
pretty, little girl, but when the hus-
band come home and not find the
wife, sometimes, he's plenty mad." It
was Mr. Swenson's favorite form of
humor, joking about husbands and
wives. Now, he laughed, noiselessly.

"Home?"

"Sure. Went upstairs about ten
minutes ago."

Peggy felt herself getting tense.
She was afraid to go in now, afraid to
tell him. She looked at Mr. Swenson,
helplessly, as if his smiling, foolish
face could give her some sort of an-
swer to her problem. Mr. Swenson
only smiled more.

"I guess I'd better go up," Peggy
said.

"I fixed that water faucet for you,

Mrs. Connant," Mr. Swenson said, as
Peggy went in the door, but she
scarcely heard him.

There were four nights of stairs to
walk. She went up the first flight
very slowly. She wanted to turn and
run. A baby. She was going to have
a baby. She'd have to tell him.

As she passed the second flight,
she heard Mr. Gold's violin. Mr.
Gold's door was open. The old man
sat on a straight-backed chair just
inside the door, his tired, lean back
bent over the instrument in his old
hands. He turned his deep, wonder-
ful, almost black eyes on Peggy as
she drew near his door.

"Good evening, Mrs. Connant," his
voice was as soft as a child's.

"Good evening, Mr. Gold," Peggy
said. "You're playing very well to-
night."

"So, Mrs. Connant?" He wagged his
head a little. "Thank you. In sixty
years, even a fool learns to do some-
thing."

Mr. Gold seemed to be the wisest
and tenderest man Peggy had ever
known. Often, she had taken her
troubles to Mr. Gold. But now, the
baby. What could he tell her? Be
happy. Tell your husband. He's a
good boy, a fine boy. But, Mr. Gold
didn't know about the bills, about the
way Bill could look sometimes. She
didn't go into Mr. Gold's room.

On the third landing, Peggy Con-
nant met Mrs. Mazlov in the hall.
Mrs. Mazlov had three children. She
had a little girl only three months
old. Peggy often wondered how the
Mazlovs lived. Mr. Mazlov made so
very little.

"Good evening, Mrs. Mazlov."

"Ah! Peggy," Mrs. Mazlov said.
"Good evening." Mrs. Mazlov always

seemed to be cheerful. "Hot tonight,

ya?"

"Yes," Peggy said. "How's the

baby?"
"Lot's better. You come in, see hei

again, yes? Baby likes you, Peggy,

very much. You like baby, too, ya?''
"Well — I — " Peggy started to say
"I know, I know," Mrs. Mazlov said

"I was the same way when I was

young. Baby looks like lots of trouble.

But, Mrs. Connant, for people what

got very little, a baby is the whole

world, believe me."
"I guess so, Mrs. Mazlov."
"You believe me, Peggy, that's so

Baby is good."

MRS. MAZLOV went on down the
hall. Peggy stopped in front of the
door. 5 C. The paint was beginning
to chip off a little on the lower part of
the 5. Peggy's stomach fluttered ter-
ribly. Peggy Connant's going to have
a baby. Tell Bill, tell Bill. You've got
to tell Bill. Then the door opened. It
was Bill. He was standing there, smil-
ing, looking happy.

"Bill," she said.

"Well — mental telepathy," BilJ
laughed. "I knew it before I opened.
Say, where have you been? I was
just going after you."

"I was just walking, Bill."

"Well, don't stand there in the door,
like a scared chicken. Come on in.
Remember? You live here, darling.
And I won't beat you because din-
ner's not ready." Bill was laughing
now. There was real laughter in his
voice. "Say, I'm so happy tonight, I
love you so much, I could be satisfied
with a raw potato."

"Bill," Peggy said, her voice sound-
ing as if it didn't belong to her "Bill.
I want to tell you."

MEET HOLLYWOOD'S NEWEST HIT!

Like a new dark comet, Glenn Ford, of "So Ends Our Night," shot
straight to stardom on the golden beam of feminine adulation. For
young Ford has that indescribable something, that devastating charm
that lures women of all ages — school chits, business girls, fortyish
matrons to write him ardent fan letters, some sweet and sincere,
others sophisticated and startling. Which all adds up to big box office
and success. Read "No Sex Appeal" — the story of his surprising rise
to film fame in the new October issue of Photoplay-Movie Mirror.

I WAKE UP SCREAMING

— an exciting new mystery starts in the October Photoplay-Movie Mirror.
Don't miss the opening chapters of a story of two girls and a boy caught
by murder in the white shadow of fame.

HOT OFF THE GRIDDLE

— "Fearless" gives some new twists to well-known Hollywood feuds and
reveals some that have never before seen the light of printed word.

OTHER STAR FEATURES— Skeletons in Hollywood's Closets • Is a
Girl's Past Ever Her Own, by Bette Davis • Your Wardrobe Tree (lots
of smart suggestions for the budget-minded) • Give Me a Ring, and many
other entertaining features and departments plus pages of full color
portraits of film favorites. All in the new October issue.

Photoplay-Movie Mirror

OCTOBER ISSUE

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OCTOBER, 1941

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"Wait," Bill said. "I'm going to tell
you something. Here," he pulled her
over to the window. "There, a nice
breeze to keep you cool, while I give
you some news hot off the press."
Peggy tried to break in, but Bill
kept talking. "Flash — Bill Connant
gets ambition. Listen, sweet, little
funny face. Today the great lords of
industry opened up the pearly gates
long enough to give your husband —
me — Bill Connant a raise."

"Bill— I—"

"Speechless? So was I, Baby. Five
bucks a week more. Isn't that ter-
rific? We're in the upper brackets,
Baby. Get anything we want."

"Bill," Peggy tried again. She felt
the tears coming into her eyes. She
fought to keep them back. "Bill, I've
got to tell you something."

"Sure, darling. As soon as I finish.
I've got to say it, funny face, before
I lose my nerve. If I stop talking, I
may not say it, Peggy." Bill paused
and looked at her, that old, adoring
look that Peggy had prayed for for
weeks now.

"Peggy — this five a week^that's
over $250 a year. I began to think
of ways we could spend it."

Peggy felt her heart pounding.

"Spend, Bill?"

"Sure, you know me. A car, I said.
Nope, the old jalopy's still pretty good.
A cottage maybe this summer? But
what the heck, I don't get a vacation
until next year. Peggy?"

"What, Bill?"

"Gee, this is crazy, Peggy. I'm
afraid to tell you."

She would always remember the
way he looked when he said that.
"Afraid, Bill? There's no reason to be
afraid, is there, Bill?" She said it as
if she wanted him to say it back to
her.

And he said, "Of course not, dar-
ling. What I'm trying to say, Peggy,
is — well — look at the newspaper head-
lines."

Peggy felt herself going again. She
was very afraid now.

BILL went on, "World's going smash
— maybe. There isn't time enough
to go anywhere or plan anything, so
how can we spend it to make both of
us really happy, to make our lives —
well — make them mean something?"

Peggy looked at him. She wasn't
thinking, now. It felt as if she wasn't
even breathing.

"Peggy," Bill said, "I've got to say
it fast, or I won't be able to say it,
at all." He took a deep breath. "Peg,
let's spend the money on having a
kid."

Peggy heard a shout in the street.
Bill's face seemed to go far off and
then it came very close. The day
and the year and all time seemed to
merge into that one moment. She held
on to herself, holding Peggy Connant
all in one piece by a tremendous, glo-
rious, supreme effort.

Bill was frightened. "Peg, what's
the matter? Why do you look like
that? Peg! I know — we never talked
about it — but I was scared of the idea,
Peg — and — and I didn't know whether
you wanted a kid. Peg! For Pete's
sake, say something!"

"Say something — " Peggy Connant
said and her voice was strong and
young and alive in her. "Say — some-
thing—oh, Bill!"

She was in his arms. She was cry-
ing and she didn't know why and she
didn't care why. "Bill, wait until you
hear!"

The End.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Superman in Radio

(Continued from page 40)

a hall. But then, the death-like quiet
was broken as a sudden muffled cry
for help echoed through the stone
corridors. liana turned white and
vainly tried to hold Kent back as
he ran in the direction of the sound.

"Come on Jimmy — down these
steps. That cry came from the cellar!"

They entered a tunnel and followed
the sound of a groaning which grew
louder by the second. Then — a room.
And, chained to the wall — a man,
unconscious.

"Quick, Jimmy — go out and fill your
cap with water from that brook out-
side— hurry!"

A LONE again, Superman snapped
'* the chains as if they were string.
Jimmy returned and the water soon
revived the prisoner. Haltingly, he
told them his story. He had been
the officer of a private yacht. One
still moonlit night his vessel had
sailed close to the island. They had
seen the rocks close to shore but had
thought they were in safe, deep
waters. But, suddenly, there was a
crash — a tearing, rending noise as if
the bottom had been torn off their
ship. Then, as hidden rocks cut deep,
the vessel began to sink and break up.
He, Carl Edwards, the only survivor,
had been washed up on shore. When
he awakened, he was a prisoner in the
big house. Boris let him live only
because he needed an assistant. Why,
and to serve what purpose, the mad-
man had not yet told him.

When he finished, Kent, eager to
get at the bottom of the mystery,
asked Jimmy to lead Edwards to the
hidden motorboat and wait for him.
He was about to go back through the
tunnel when he heard footsteps come
softly down the stairs. It was liana,
searching for him. Minutes went by
as she began to tell him the history of
the Island. Her brother had been the
caretaker for an eccentric millionaire
who had built the place. Then he
died and Boris was alone. One day —

"I received a cable to come at once.
He said he had discovered untold
riches and needed my help ... I ar-
rived and found my brother mad with
a lust for what he had found. De-
termined to kill anyone who came
near the Island, he removed the har-
bor markers which warned ships off
the hidden rocks. He did that with
a horrible purpose — he wanted no
ship or its passengers to come any-
where near him. That's how Ed-
wards' vessel — and yours, too —
crashed and sank. He needed Edwards
to help him — but he kept him in that

cell to beat him into submission. He'll
go to any lengths to protect his secret.
And that secret — "

She never finished. From far off
came a cry for help which reached
only the sensitive ears of the Man of
Tomorrow. He whirled and sped
through the tunnel. As Jimmy's fran-
tic cries carried over the Island, the
powerful figure in blue costume and
flying cape emerged from the camou-
flaged opening to the tunnel. He flew
over the water, saw the smashed bits
of a boat, Jimmy, unconscious,
sprawled over a sand-bar — and, deep
in the water, Carl Edwards was help-
less— his leg was caught in the power-
ful shells of a giant tropical clam!

Superman dove deeply: "Good
thing the water's clear — but I've got
to work fast before Edwards drowns.
If I can only get my hands between
those shells, I can pry them open —
Got it! Now to wrench the shells
apart and free his foot — Great Scott
these things are powerful!" The great
muscles bulged. Then — "There — that
does it. And I think we've solved the
mystery of Dead Man's Island!"

Effortlessly, Superman carried Jim-
my and Edwards back to the beach.
When they came to their senses,
he was waiting for them as Clark
Kent. Sure now that the clams held
the secret, he led the way back into the
house. Quietly, they stepped into
the room in which Boris had ordered
his sister to kill the intruders. But
the madman was there waiting for
them. Gun raised to shoot, he ordered
them to halt. But Kent, ignoring the
threat, threw himself at the murderer.
He caught his wrist just as Boris
pulled the trigger. The shot didn't
go wild — an Unseen Avenger guided
the bullet into Boris' heart. liana
breathed softly: "May he rest in
peace." The tortured look left her
face, and silently, she guided Kent
to a steel cabinet in the wall. She
spun the dial. The door swung open
and Kent gasped:

"Whew! There's a king's ransom!
That whole cabinet is full of pearls!"

"Yes," said the girl, "there lies
Boris' secret. He got them from the
big clams. But I shall leave them
here — they have caused enough sad-
ness— enough grief. Let them remain
here forever."

Kent swung the door shut. Tight-
lipped, they all followed liana to the
small sailboat she had concealed in a
cove. As they cast off, Kent and
Jimmy looked back just once at Dead
Man's Island to which Superman had
brought Justice.

Say t/e£&7o-

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Amanda of Honeymoon Hill

(Continued jrom page 16)

would see her tearing through the
woods toward the whiteness of that
house, clear in the night, in such an-
guish as she had never known. She
did not know that a grim-faced father
would seize her as she entered the
cabin and push her into her room and
throw the bolt across her door, telling
her she would never leave that room
until she went to Charlie's house to be
his wife. From that dreadful minute
when she crawled through her tiny
window, tearing her dress, bruising
her body, until she pounded on the
studio door and it was opened to her
by Edward, there was but one emotion
driving her — to be with him, and being
with him, to be safe.

She flung herself into his arms, sob-
bing and moaning as if in pain, and
he held her gently, and smoothed her
hair.

"Edward, Edward, keep me — save
me. There isn't anyone else — don't
turn me out — "

He guided her over to a chair and
forced her into it. Her face was that
of a tortured child and she lifted it
to his, and a furious anger filled him
at whoever had done what had been
done to her. And when he learned the
truth — her marriage, planned without
her consent, her sick and dreadful
distaste for Charlie Harris — he jumped
to his feet and walked around the
room with such bitter rage choking
him that he could not speak.

IT'S awful in the Valley," Amanda
' whispered, her delicate features
strained and tired, "awful when you're
married. Oh, Edward," and with a
sudden cry she held out her hands
to him, "I can't bear to have Charlie
marry me. Keep me here. I'll work
for you. I'll scrub, I'll cook, I'll — "

"Hush, dear Amanda." He knelt
beside her, and held her shaking hands
against his cheek. "You're safe. I
won't let them take you away."

Then Amanda sighed and smiled. "I
knew you w'ould save me."

With sudden decision he said, "I
know — I'll take you over to Mother at
Big House."

"No — no — don't send me away. Let
me stay with you."

"You dear innocent," Edward ex-
claimed, and drew her to her feet, and
looked into her eyes. "You can't do
that. Amanda, you trust me, don't
you?"

"I trust you until death," she
answered.

The words hurt in their simplicity.
He spoke quickly to hide his emotion.
"Then you must do as I say. I'll take
you over to Mother."

He tucked her hand under his arm,
and together they went across the
dew-wet grass toward the lights of
Big House glimmering behind massed
trees of maple and live oak.

But Amanda shrank from the vast
rooms of Big House, from the beauti-
ful, gracious woman, Susan Leighton,
who hid under a kind manner her sur-
prise at this strange guest. She felt
a little easier with Colonel Bob, Ed-
ward's uncle, who was so openly de-
lighted with her and did his best to
make her feel at ease.

She slept that night in a bed so soft
she was afraid she would fall through
it, and a negro servant showed her
how to wash in a mysterious room
where one turned handles and water

appeared like magic. She knew she
was doing right in staying here, be-
cause Edward had told her she must.
But she was frightened in the morning
until he had come to get her. Then
they spent most of the day together in
the studio. Late in the afternoon he
asked her to go to her room, saying
that he and Colonel Bob were bringing
her a dress to wear to the dance that
evening.

"A dance — a dance — " Amanda
clapped her hands. Then a shadow
crossed her face. "That's when you
and Sylvia are to announce that you're
going to be married?"

Edward nodded, suddenly quiet.
"Come along," he exclaimed, a trifle
brusquely.

Amanda, moving around her room
and humming softly to herself, heard
the door open and turned, her eyes
bright with anticipation. Then she
stiffened, with a swift, almost defen-
sive motion. It was Sylvia, not Ed-
ward, who was entering the room.

"Oh, Amanda, I'm so glad you're
alone," Sylvia smiled brightly. But
there was no answering smile on
Amanda's lips. "I want to talk to you.
You really need a friend to advise
you — "

"I have a friend — Edward — and he
is all I need," Amanda said.

"But that's just it, Amanda," Syl-
via said softly, deliberately. "There
are so many things you don't under-
stand. You are only — forgive me for
saying this — but you're only a Valley
girl. You shouldn't come to this dance
tonight. You'll be terribly out of
place, and I'm sure you'll be miserable
and unhappy."

Amanda looked directly into the
beautiful face and hard eyes. "Ed-
ward has asked me, and if you want to
be a dutiful wife you wouldn't say
anything against his wishes. Besides,
to tell you the truth, I don't like you,
Sylvia, and I don't trust you."

YOU dare to speak to me like that!"
Sylvia's eyes flashed. "You poor,
foolish girl! Now I will tell you the
truth. Edward has asked you out of
pity. He's too kind for his own
good. He is sorry for you. If you
go you'll shame him before all his
friends. Of course, if you're willing
to accept pity I can't say anything
more — " and she was out of the room.

Amanda turned away to the win-
dow, her back very straight. Fierce
pride of the Valley flamed in her.
Pity — she would die before she would
take pity from anyone. But, when
Edward returned, exclaiming eagerly
as he opened the door: "Amanda,
Uncle Bob has found the perfect dress
for you," all she could say was, "I'm
not going to the dance, Edward. It
was kind of you to ask me, but I'm
not going."

"Of course you're going," Uncle
Bob said from the doorway. "Just
look at this." And he held toward her
a shimmering gown of lace and chiffon.
"I found it in one of the trunks, and
there's a veil and shoes to match."

"I'm not going." But Amanda's eyes
were like stars as he placed the dress
In her arms.

Edward was puzzled. "Don't be silly,
Amanda. What's happened? My eve-
ning will be ruined if you're not
there."

"Edward," Amanda said, and her

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

race was so serious that both men
stared at her in surprise, "give me
your oath that you are speaking the
truth."

"Of course I am, you amazing child.
Now run along into the dressing room
and put on that dress."

When Amanda returned to the room
Edward stood breathless at the beauty
and dignity of the girl smiling at him
in her rapt joy, and Colonel Bob
gently touched her red-gold hair.

"You are lovelier than any of the
Leighton women, and that's the great-
est compliment I could make you," he
said. "Now let me help you with the
veil."

But even as he placed it on her head,
there was the sound of running feet,
and Sylvia, her lips a thin line, her
face white, spoke from the open door.

"Take off that veil. Mrs. Leighton
gave it to me to be my wedding veil.
What right have you, Edward — or
you, Colonel Bob — to put it on her?"

Amanda whirled; her fingers shook
as she caught the delicate web of lace
from her hair and tossed it into
Sylvia's hands.

"I wear no other woman's wedding
veil, and if you think I'd do it, you're
mistaken. Take it and keep it. I'm
Valley born, and I'm proud of the Val-
ley, and don't you ever speak to me
like that again." She turned to the
window, her head high.

"Now, Edward," Sylvia's voice had
a deadly quiet in it, "it's time we went
down to our guests." She held out
her hand.

For a second he hesitated, and as
Colonel Bob watched him with a curi-
ous smile, he said, almost gently,
"I'm sorry, dear, but I'm taking Aman-
da down. She is our guest, too, and
I think something is due her after
what has happened."

I IKE a child, tremulous with excite-
•- ment, and clinging to Edward's arm,
Amanda came down the stairs into
the great hall. The men and women
crowded around her, fascinated by her
gentle dignity, her frank delight, her
quaint speech which was part of her
charm. The hour slipped by, as light
and happy as the music and laughter
which gave it wings. The soft, summer
night pressed against the windows, a
light breeze rustling the trees, carry-
ing the sweetness of flowers through
the rooms.

"Amanda," a sudden thought struck
Edward, "can you sing any of the old
ballads?"

She nodded. "I've known them
since I was a child."

He handed her his lute, and her
fingers touched the strings. Then
her voice, clear and sweet, rose in
songs that were old when England
was young. "Helen of Kirconnell,"
"The Two Corbies," "Robin Adair" —
Suddenly her fingers faltered, her
voice broke, and all turned to follow
her wide horrified gaze to where a tall
man, coming out of the darkness, was
striding across the floor toward her.

"Edward!" The lute clattered to the
floor, and both hands caught his arm.

"You're coming. with me, Amanda,"
Joseph Dyke's voice was hard and
harsh; "and I'll strip those devil's
clothes from your back before you go
to wed Charlie." His great hand
pulled her from Edward's side. "A
daughter of mine, dressed like Jeze-
bel, standing in the house of an out-
lander, and singing to 'em — "

Amanda's voice rose in stark terror:
"Don't let Pa take me — don't let Pa

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take me — "

Edward was at her side, only to find
himself thrust aside by a powerful
arm.

"Let her go, Edward Leighton. We
want no truck with you."

"You aren't going to take her."
There was anger and fury in Edward's
voice.

"You can't stop me. She's my
daughter. I have the right of it."

SON!" It was Susan Leighton's im-
perious voice, "Of course, you
can't stop Mr. Dyke. He is Amanda's
father."

"For once I'm with you, Susan
Leighton," Joseph Dyke said angrily.
"Come Amanda." Then, as she still
struggled against the cruel grip of
his fingers, unyielding, stiff, he swung
her up into his arms.

"Edward," she moaned, "you prom-
ised me."

"Amanda!" He flung himself for-
ward. "I can't let you go — "

But his mother stepped before him,
as Dyke strode out into the night,

speaking in a low, commanding voice.
He watched the white glimmer of
Amanda's dress until the darkness hid
it. She no longer struggled; Edward
had broken his promise. The one
person to whom she had looked for
help, the one person in whom she had
placed her trust because he had been
gentle and kind, had betrayed her.
And the numb despair of her heart
crept like a cold wave over her body.
She did not see him stoop and pick
up the broken lute, or see him walk
away from the whispering guests,
away from his mother's hand and
Sylvia's voice. Nor did she know that
he stood, staring down the Valley
Road, his face as white as hers, but on
it a new determination which made
him look old and stern.

With her pride so terribly hurt, must
Amanda put aside all her dreams of
a better, more beautiful life, and
obey her father's stern orders to
marry Charlie Harris? Be sure to con-
tinue this love story of two worlds
in the November Radio Mirror.

Who Is Claudia?

(Continued from page 17)

Peggy, were agog over this incident
for days. "You would have thought,
to see Pat," Mrs. Ryan never tired of
telling them, "that she stood before
audiences and recited every day of her
life."

Even Pat's appearance at the local
movie theater in a "Kiddie Revue,"
for which she was paid two dollars an
evening didn't cause as much com-
motion. Because somehow the day
she recited that little rhyme her
mother had brought from England,
they all sensed it was a beginning.
They were ready for anything after
that. And it was just as well.

Otherwise not even as sane a fam-
ily as the Ryans would have known
quite how to act this summer with
their daughter suddenly become a
star. Just having her grow up to be
nineteen had seemed enough, espe-
cially when she was such a beautiful
nineteen, with her cool gray eyes,
smooth blonde hair, and fresh young
face with so much pertness that it
seemed always to be saying, "Hi."
But to be a star —

IT HAPPENED, though, whether the
■ Ryans were prepared or not. The
beginning was several years ago when
Rose Franken began writing stories
about a captivating heroine named
Claudia and her young architect hus-
band, David, later writing a play
about the same Claudia. Last spring
radio decided it wanted a Claudia
program on the air. So Rose Franken
wrote some scripts that were audi-
tioned by a sponsor who said, "Won-
derful," and who arranged for them
to appear right away on the Kate
Smith program, with the plan that
they would continue this summer
when Kate began her regular vaca-
tion.

All that was needed was to find
someone to play Claudia. That's all,
just someone young enough, beau-
tiful enough, vibrant and charming
enough to sound as fresh and as ro-
mantic as the made-up character
named Claudia.

Pat Ryan won out over a hundred
competitors. Nineteen-year-old Pat
Ryan. The very first broadcast proved

how right the choice had been. Every
succeeding broadcast on Friday
nights is further evidence that a new
star is to shine brightly for a long
time to come.

I found out why Pat Ryan had be-
come a star when I talked to her. We
met in the reception room of the
Columbia broadcasting studios on the
twenty-second floor where a deep,
brown leather lounge runs along the
wall, flanked by shining chromium,
and far below, always, there is the
drone of traffic with crescendos of
shrieking brakes and strident horns.

Pat sat on the edge of the lounge,
small and straight. She wore a blue
and white polkadot dress and a big
blue hat sat far back on her smooth,
bright hair. While at least, a dozen
young men waved at her and waited
hopefully for an invitation to sit
down, Pat told me her story. And
telling it, revealed the secret.

Pat Ryan is Claudia. Pat is the
girl who talks about three or four
different things at the same time. She
is the beautiful teen-age girl, naive
and yet so wise beyond her years,
who talks breathlessly, frankly, and
reveals in her inflections, her gestures
and her attitudes the most desirable
femininity. Which is what the story-
book Claudia is made to be. Only
Pat Ryan is that girl in flesh and
blood.

Charm is indescribable. It just is.
Pat Ryan can best be described by a
record of one of her conversations.
Listen to her as she talked that after-
noon.

"My mother's my very best friend,"
she said. "I shouldn't say that, I
know. People poke fun at you for
saying things like that. Let them!
It's true. I talk to my mother with-
out any restraint. I tell her all about
my dates and things. You see my
mother understands about practically
everything in the world except the
New York Yankees. She really
doesn't appreciate that team at all. I
even ride in the subway to see them
play, they're so wonderful. And sub-
ways and tunnels are two things I
must say I'm sissy about. When my
father has his day off and we go to

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

the ball-game together — it's through
father I've come to love baseball, as
you can imagine, mother feeling the
way she does about it — or not feeling
any way about it, to be more exact —
well, when father and I go to see the
Yankees play he talks all the time
we're in the subway to keep my mind
off it.

"All the boys I know simply adore
my mother. I've known only one who
didn't like her. An acrobat dancer,
when I was six, who had the most
surprising muscles. His mother made
trouble between us. She insisted
he be nice to me. We were in the
same 'Kiddie Revue.'

EVERYBODY says, when you have a
career," Pat explained, "that it's
important to keep life from getting in
the way of it. I think it's more im-
portant not to let your career get in
the way of your life. I was lucky
to learn this as young as I did, when
I was in the 8A and I got left back
because I was absent so much doing
'Skippy' recordings that I didn't pass
Latin. Being left back was much
more unhappy making than doing
'Skippy' recordings was happy mak-
ing, if I make myself clear at all.

"Of course now that I'm 'Claudia,'
I don't think about much of anything
else. But in my secret heart I know
I want to marry some day and live
as normally as possible. No one can
go on being a star forever. I know
I need something substantial. I real-
ize a well-balanced life is best. As
mother always says when she hands
me the dish-towel, 'You can't tell how
long this will last. You'd better be
prepared to be a poor man's wife.
There always are so many more poor

men than rich men in the world and
girls always seem to find the poor
men so much more charming. Maybe
they are; there has to be a law of
averages.' Oh, you'd just love my
mother!

"My older sister, Peggy — who's
married and has a two-year-old,
Dennis — they live with us — talks to
me the same as mother. Because she
wants me to take Dennis to the park
mornings. And I like doing it. It's
so comfortable to sit in the sun and
watch Dennis play with the other lit-
tle boys and girls and compare notes
about when he walked and talked
and what he weighs and what he eats
for dinner with all the other mothers
and nurse-girls.

"Did I tell you how I lost four
pounds?" she asked.

"I was one out of two hundred and
fifty when I auditioned, you see. I
felt certain they'd choose someone
with a big Hollywood name in the end.
I did my best, naturally! But really
I concentrated on and counted on the
role of 'Peggy' in 'Meet Mr. Meek'
which I tried out for at the same time.
When I heard I'd been ruled out on
'Peggy' because I was too young, I
was desperately disappointed. Little
did I know what was ahead — you
never do know, I guess . . .

"It was after I learned that it was
between me and four others who got
the part of Claudia that I lost the
four pounds," Pat supplemented. "The
agency kept telephoning, 'They're
down to four . . . they're down to
three . . . they're down to two . . .
we'll let you know at five o'clock . . .
we'll let you know in the morning
. . .' Finally, I simply couldn't stand it
another minute so I went to the

beauty parlor and had a manicure
and mother telephoned, 'It's definitely
set. You're Claudia!' and I could
hardly wait for the polish to dry; I
ran all the way home and bought
mother flowers.

"I thought the excitement would
be over then until I played Claudia
for the first time. But it wasn't.
'You'll have to move,' our friends told
us. 'Now you'll have to do this! Now
you'll have to do that!' But we didn't.
We stayed right where we were.
Mother even talked me out of getting
a car."

About this time the elevator doors
clanged open and a young man from
the CBS publicity department ap-
peared and joined us on the long
leather lounge. Very casual, he was,
and you could say that he was there
only in the line of duty, being the
conscientious young CBS representa-
tive watching over an interview and
seeing that it went well.

But I wasn't so sure about all that,
and when he'd left us — reluctantly —
I asked Pat about him. She confessed
then that he's one of three young men
she dates with these days. And from
the look in her eye I gathered that he
might have just a bit the advantage
over the other two.

BUT I guess," she said a little wist-
fully, "I'm so busy now thinking
about Claudia I don't really have time
to think about anything else — not
even boy friends."

The question of romance safely out
of the way, Pat went on, at her usual
breakneck speed.

"Ten percent of my salary I save —
for a trousseau some day; ten per-
cent I use for spending money, to buy

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clothes, to fill my church envelopes;
and the rest I give to mother . . . The
Ryans aren't a religious family in
the church going sense. Mother sent
my sister Peggy and me to Sunday
School when Peg was eight and I was
four as a matter of routine. Peggy
quit Sunday School at eighteen. My
younger sister, Junie — she's sixteen
— and I will always go to church, I
believe, for it means a lot to us.

"I sing in the St. Cecelia Choir and
I'm manager of the church's basket-
ball team. Most of the girls on the
team have full-time jobs and it's
easier for me to handle the business
end, make arrangements to play dif-
ferent teams, things like that. I work
Friday nights when we broadcast and
Thursday mornings when we rehearse
and I have to meet people and have
pictures taken in between. But I
couldn't say I work more than two
whole days and one evening a week
altogether. I like being manager
better than being captain. Because
when I was captain I was always
afraid to give orders, to tell any girl
she had to get her uniform on, to
put anyone off the court or take some-
one else on. And once when I found
the courage to say, 'Let's take Doro-
thy out of the game and put Ethel in,'
some of the girls questioned me right
out there on the floor. 'Just because
you're on the radio you think you're
somebody,' one of the them said later
in the dressing-room. I think any-
body who uses your work to put you
down is terribly unfair. Almost every
time it has happened I haven't been
able to answer. I've just walked away.
But that time I said plenty. I was
very angry and I screamed a little,
I think. Anyway I told the girls I
didn't think it was any honor to be
captain and do all the work unless
they were with me. I told them
everything I had been thinking and

I had been thinking a great deal in
my spare time. Everyone kissed and
we went home in the end. But it was
a bad time. I just hate to feel all
stirred up inside, the way I did that
time and the way I do any time peo-
ple talk against England. That al-
ways gets my mother and me stand-
ing against them shoulder to shoulder.
My grandmother's in London right
now. We send her what we can but
you aren't allowed to send much —
tea and sugar . . ."

NOW on Friday nights there are
some members of New York's fine
Metropolitan Club who wait quietly
for eight o'clock when Ryan will turn
the radio to Claudia and David and,
listening, they'll remember their
youth and be refreshed, like weary
travellers at a rushing stream.

As the program ended the other
evening a gentleman with a florid
face and a white walrus mustache
and a life-long interest in genealogy
approached Ryan intently.

"Is it from you or Mrs. Ryan that
Miss Pat inherits her remarkable
ability?" he asked solemnly.

"She doesn't get it from either of
us," Ryan explained. "All my life
when I haven't been a waiter I've
been a soldier. I served in the Span-
ish-American war and it was when
I was a dough-boy in London, years
ago, that I met Pat's mother — during
an air-raid. And we were married
a few weeks later."

"Which goes to prove you can't be-
lieve what you hear," chuckled the
gentleman with the walrus mustache
"What about all these people who
insist no good ever comes of a war
romance like yours? Ryan, you ought
to introduce them to Claudia — I mean.
Miss Patsy."

Beauty While You Work

(Continued from page 9)

bath full of warm, soft water is more
definitely a beauty and health aid for
me. Not nearly enough of us are as
careful about this daily routine as we
should be. For a more effective bath,
next time do the real work first. Cover
yourself with suds from head to toe,
using a soapy wash cloth. Then fold a
towel for a head rest, climb into the
tub and stretch out full length and
really relax.

Now is the time of day for a facial
that you can give yourself with a
minimum of time and a maximum of
effect. There is a surprising variety
you can try at practically no expense.
There are the beauty masks that you
can buy at the five and ten that will
draw the blood to the surface, tighten
the skin and remove all excess and
dead skin. Then there is the home-
made two-minute facial for use when
you're behind schedule or when your
husband calls at the last minute and
says there'll be company. Do this and
you'll have your facial — in a flash.

FORM a soft paste with one or two
yeast cakes and enough witch hazel
to soften. Spread on smoothly and
leave for a minute or two until it
dries. Remove it with cold water. Your
face will feel as bright and beautiful
as it looks.

By timing yourself right up to the
minute, you can make your every-day

beauty routine as automatic as brush-
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If the day has left you all in, take
another minute for a quick pickup.
Before your bath, sprinkle table salt
over yourself and rub off with a moist
sponge. You will tingle all over, your
nerve ends will be less tense and
you'll find life worth living again.
Another trick is a handful of washing
soda in your bath for a pep-you-
upper. For feet that have been stood
upon all day, try a white iodine-oil
massage. (Half a teaspoonful of white
iodine mixed with an ounce of oil.)

Cold witch hazel compresses over
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For that afternoon when in spite of
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It's six and dinner is about to be
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face forward. Take five minutes to
put on makeup, even if it makes the
meal five minutes late. It's better to
be late and beautiful than early and
unattractive. Ask your husband!

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

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OCTOBER, 1941

Facing the Music

(Continued from page 4)

Proser's Dance Carnival in Madison
Square Garden was an ill-fated ven-
ture. It folded after twenty-two days.
The heat kept the dancers away.

* * *

Fourteen members of Skinnay
Ennis' crew were in a bus accident
and some of the men were seriously
hurt. Ennis and his vocalist, Carmine,
escaped the crash. There have been a
number of these accidents lately and
talk is circulating that the musicians'
union will prohibit leaders from tak-
ing their bands on long tours, via bus.

* * *

Claude Thornhill will succeed
Charlie Spivak at Glen Island Casino
in September and inherit the MBS
wire.

* * *

Larry Taylor who was one of the
better band vocalists, is now a music
publisher. Larry used to sing with
Charlie Barnet and Morton Gould.

* * *

"Facing the Music" salutes Freddy
Martin for getting the coveted Lady
Esther CBS commercial. It is high
time this excellent orchestra received
proper attention.

A Correction

Several issues back I stated that
Canada Lee, colored actor who scored
such a hit in Orson Welles' "Native
Son," was developing a dance band. I
stand corrected. Lee expects to de-
vote himself entirely to the stage and
radio.

* * *

Raymond Scott is going to have an-
other small band beside the Quintet.
It will be called the "Secret Seven"
and will devote itself to the discovery
of "mystery music." Figure that one

out.

* * #

From the day of its conception, the
Hut Sut Song has had a history as
screwy as its own lyrics.

Although whipped into commercial
shape by singer Jack Owens and Ted
MacMichael, one of the Merry Macs,
it was originated by an attorney for
the California State Legislature, Leo
Killian, with whom MacMichael had
once attended school.

Finding it amusing, MacMichael
persuaded his outfit to do it on the
air, and turned it over to 25-year-old
arranger, Walter Schumann, for
preparation.

Schumann, seeing its potentialities,
submitted it to established music pub-
lishers, who, in a body, turned it
down. So Schumann went into the
publishing business himself.

Experienced Tin Pan Alley execu-
tives estimate the cost of promoting a
song into the hit ranks, somewhere
between 20 and 30 thousand dollars,
divided between office overhead and
salaries for field men in key cities.

Schumann operated single-handed,
from his own home, a simple frame
house in Hollywood. Replacing the
expensive "contact" method, and
using his own ingenuity and a belief
that the country needed a whacky
song-, he called upon friends of his in
radio, asking them, as a favor, to use
it on their programs.

To date it has been played by every
band in the country, and has been
recorded by Horace Heidt. Freddy
Martin, the King Sisters, the Merry
Macs, Joe Reichman, Frankie Masters,

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Ella Logan, The Jesters and The
Three Sons.

So far, its profits amount to 75
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This is one time that double-talk
has made cents.

Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie

WHEN Charlie Spivak was told
that his parents would take him
to the neighbors' wedding, he looked
forward to the event with all the en-
thusiasm a fourteen-year-old boy can
muster. He was certain that it would
surpass in thrills such red letter dates
as the closing of school, the measles,
and the annual visit of the circus. The
boy was right. Although more than
a decade and a half have passed since
then, Charlie will never forget it.

"Don't ask me to tell you the names
of the bride and groom," he said, as
his band paused between dance sets
at Glen Island Casino, "but I can still
hear the strains of the soft, muted
trumpet that played for them."

The magnetic music Charlie heard
that night decided his career. For-
gotten were the plans of his father to
make his son a doctor. It wasn't a
well-known orchestra that attracted
the boy; just one of those makeshift
groups one hears at such functions.
Only the trumpet stood out, clean and
sharp, waiting impatiently for the
rest of the band to catch up. The
notes that poured forth reverberated
through the boy's short, stocky frame.

"It was a strange sensation," the
bandleader recalled, "because I had
never felt that way about music be-
fore. I went over to that rickety
bandstand and never left it."

Next day the boy went to see his
Pied Piper. He didn't have to go far.
Trumpeter Milton Stein was a local
musician who lived a few blocks from
the Spivak grocery store in New
Haven, Connecticut.

"I heard you play last night," said
Charlie worshipfully, "and I can't get
the music out of my head. Would you
teach me to play like that?"

Stein was inclined to ignore the
boy's strange request. But something
in Charlie's manner made him pause.

"Tell you what, kid," suggested the
musician, half-heartedly expecting his
offer would discourage the lad, "I'll
give you a few lessons. But it will
cost you a buck a piece."

"Gosh," replied his future pupil
eagerly, "I'll be glad to pay that even
if it means doing without the movies."

Although Stein wearied of his task
after a dozen lessons, Charlie was
confident. He sought out George
Hyer, trumpet virtuoso with the New
Haven Symphony and made arrange-
ments to continue his study. Lack of
funds made the going difficult.

"My first cornet was so small,"
Charlie explained, "that I was always
getting the first valve in my nose."

However, Charlie overcame these
difficulties and by the time he was
graduated from high school he had no
trouble getting a job with a local band
known as the Paragons. Paul Specht
heard him and added the youngster
to his band. He stayed with Specht
five years and acquired a small repu-
tation. Like other fast rising jazz in-
strumentalists, Charlie got offers from
a dozen other bands; linked up with
the Dorsey Brothers, Bob Crosby, Ray
Noble, and Ben Pollack. It was while
with the latter on a road tour that the
trumpeter met his wife Fritzie, a St.
Paul librarian.

When the baby came, Charlie de-
cided it was his duty to stick close to
home and he concentrated on jobs
with network studio bands.

It was Glenn Miller who suggested
that Spivak form his own band. The
bespectacled trombonist was so posi-
tive that his friend would click that
he helped finance the undertaking.

That was a year ago. The band has
developed quickly, thanks to a stream
of Okeh recordings and a heavy air
buildup on Mutual from Glen Island
Casino, known as the cradle for new
swing bands. Tin Pan Alley thinks
the Spivak crew is destined for big
money brackets; points to the night
last July when 1,700 people packed
the Westchester dance rendezvous to
help Charlie beat his friend Glenn
Miller's record there.

The band is heavily staffed. There
are 21 people in it, including singer
Garry Stevens, who hitch hiked to
Glen Island to get the audition, and
The Debs, a trio of girl singers. Most
of the musicians are from Washing-
ton, D. C, and were recommended to
Spivak by Miller. Although the or-
ganization is not making real money
at the present time, Charlie believes
profits will come once the band em-
barks on a lengthy road tour this
Fall. He has paid back Miller.

Highlight of the band is Charlie's
exciting trumpet solos. "His style of
playing sweet and hot without blast-
ing the roof has caused much com-
ment. To accomplish this, Charlie in-
vented a mute designed especially for
microphone and recording work. It
is patented under the name, "Spivak -
tone" and will be on the market some
time next month.

"Using this mute I could blow my
trumpet into your ear without pierc-
ing it and the person sitting next to
you would be unable to hear it," he
explained proudly.

At present, Charlie, his wife, and
six-year-old son, Joel Allyn, live in a
rented house in New Rochelle, N. Y.,
near Glen Island. Pride of the house-
hold is the Spivak heir. But father

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OCTOBER. 1341

and son disagree on music quite often.
Joel prefers to follow in the wake of
Gene Krupa and plays his drums from
sunup to sundown.

One night Charlie came home and
heard his young son viciously attack-
ing the skins.

"Say, you aren't playing that right,"
reprimanded Charlie, "You'll never be
the greatest drummer in the world if
you continue that way."

"Well," answered the boy, "you
don't play the sweetest trumpet
either."

"If I don't, who does?"

"Oh, that's easy," piped the boy,
"Harry James."

Off the Record
Some Like It Sweet:

Tommy Dorsey: (Victor 27461) "Kiss
the Boys Goodbye" and "I'll Never Let
a Day Pass By." Sprightly package
of tunes from the new Paramount pic-
ture vocally decorated by Frank Sina-
tra and Connie Haines.

Harry James: (Columbia 36146)
"Don't Cry Cherie" and "La Paloma."
Another nostalgic outburst for a France
that was. But Harry James' soothing
trumpet and Dick Haymes' singing
give it the necessary impetus for hit
classification. James also comes through
with just about the best recording of
"Daddy" I've heard.

Guy Lombardo: (Decca 3799) "My
Gal Sal" and "On the Boulevard." Lom-
bardo is favoring the old timers with the
proper sentimental setting.

Mitchell Ay res: (Bluebird 11179)
"Time Was" and "Anything." Mary
Ann Mercer turns in a commendable
singing performance on a platter that
shows off this band better than on
previous occasions.

Barry Wood: (Victor 27478) "Any
Bonds Today" and "Arms for America."
What Lucille Manners is to the national
anthem, this Lucky Strike singer is to
Irving Berlin's two new tributes to
defense savings. He punches them
solidly and with patriotic fervor.

(Recommended Albums: Xavier Cu-
gat's romantic Rumba Album for Vic-
tor, Ozzie Nelson's Prom Date, which is
filled with college tunes and serves as
a herald for the approaching football
season, and Columbia's colorful circus
album recorded by the Ringling Broth-
ers-Barnum and Bailey band.)

Some Like It Swing:

Charlie Spivak: (Okeh 6246) "Charlie
Horse" and "When the Sun Comes
Out." For a mild mannered fellow,
Spivak can certainly turn out plenty of
enthusiastic swing music. A well bal-
anced platter that should head your
record list.

Jimmy Lunceford: (Decca 3807)
"Chocolate" and "Battle Axe." Here's
your boogie woogie potion for the
month.

Will Bradley: (Columbia 36182)
"When You and I Were Young, Maggie"
and "I'm Misunderstood." Probably
one of the best disks turned in by this
band in many weeks. The old timer is
taken for a sizzling ride, while the
reverse turns out to be a gracious
ballad properly interpreted by singer
Terry Allen.

Glenn Miller: (Bluebird 11187) "Take
the A' Train" and "I'll Have to Dream
the Rest." An instrumental novelty
taken in slow stride and welcomed by
Miller fans who have wearied of the
over abundance of ballads this band
has made.

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S CITY STATE.

By DR. GRACE GREGORY

WHAT is the first requirement
for beauty? Simple! Plenty
of soap and water — and we
mean plenty. Also, time to use them
properly. Only when you have made
the fullest use of these essentials are
you ready for all the rest of the ex-
quisite toiletries and cosmetics which
are now available.

Paula Kelly, the beautiful and pop-
ular soloist heard on Glenn Miller's
Moonlight Serenade, Tuesday,
Wednesday and Thursday nights at
10 p.m., E.D.T. over CBS, admits
frankly that she is a soap-and-water
girl. Her beauty routines begin with
proper bathing. And she looks it —
always refreshed and relaxed, in spite
of the strenous demands of her career
and her home.

Paula's mother was a singer, and
little Paula faced her first audience
at the age of ten. She and her two
sisters appeared as a trio with local
dance bands, until they won a prize
on Major Bowes' Amateur Hour.
They traveled for fourteen weeks as
headline act of a Bowes' unit.

At this point Paula, at the impatient
age of sixteen, decided she must be-
gin her career as a soloist. She had
an audition with two orchestras.
Both of them wanted to sign her im-
mediately. She liked them equally.
So — believe it or not — she had two
distinguished orchestra leaders flip a
coin to decide which was to have her.

Soap and water comes first on Paula Kelly's beauty regime.
Paula swings those songs on the Glenn Miller CBS program.

* * *
82

iiiihi *<iiikiv

Fate apparently looks out for Paula
when she flips coins. She went from
success to success, and finally met
and married Hal Dickenson, one of
the Modernaires who recently be-
came permanent members of Glenn
Miller's band. For a while she seemed
more interested in marriage and her
baby daughter than she was in pro-
fessional music. But again fate took
a hand. Paula joined Glenn's or-
chestra, taking the place of Marion
Hutton, who was leaving in anticipa-
tion of her baby.

Paula believes that there's just one
thing will keep your skin in top con-
dition— plenty of the right kind of
baths. Plenty of soap and water.

You will of course choose your soap
carefully.

If you like perfumed soaps, or
tinted soaps, that is your privilege.
Anything that helps to make the daily
beauty bath a joy to be anticipated
and reveled in is a thing to be com-
mended. If you like one of the pure
white soaps, you can add your per-
fume to the bath in many other ways.

In any case, use plenty of warm
water, softened, and cover yourself
with rich suds. Relax in your bath,
and give yourself a sudsy rub-down
all over. Give special attention to
a detailed soaping and massage of
the feet. Always keep a pumice stone
handy. You will be amazed how
many foot troubles can be helped or
avoided by massaging off dried or

hardened skin with pumice.

If you are a busy woman in the
morning (aren't we all!), have a
freshening shower when you get up,
and plan for fifteen or twenty min-
utes of leisurely bathing at some
other time. For the business girl, it
is a fine idea to take that relaxing
tub when you dress for the evening.
You'll feel like a different person, all
nerve strain washed away.

Another good time for the beauty
bath is bed time. It is a great help
toward genuinely refreshing sleep.

There are all sorts of gadgets to
make the bath luxurious and effec-
tive. There are bath brushes and
complexion brushes and big rubber
sponges. There are seats across the
tub if you want to let the lather stay
on awhile (a very good idea). There
are even bath pillows to fasten at
the head of the tub for those who
have discovered what an excellent
place is the beauty bath for thinking
things over. There are bath salts and
bath oils and bubble baths for those
who like perfume and variety. And
when you come out, there are toilet
water and dusting powders in your
favorite odeurs, to give the finishing
touches.

In short, your bath can be a ritual
of the utmost luxury. But the es-
sentials for beauty, health, and re-
freshment are plenty of pure, mild
soap, plenty of warm, softened water,
and leisure for their proper use.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIFROH

The Difference Love Makes

(Continued from page 21)

in his voice. He seemed very tired.
"It'll be a good, routine broadcast."

"That's swell," I said. "That's what
you wanted."

"Let's go for a ride, Jane," he said,
suddenly. "I want to get away."

There was something strange in his
tone. I couldn't quite analyze it. Dis-
gust? Unhappiness?

We drove high into the hills in the
north, where it was cool and the air
was heavy with the smell of fir trees.
Far below us, the valley stretched out
and Middletown was a mass of tiny,
glowing lights.

"It looks lovely from here," I said.

"You should see New York, Jane,"
Rand said. And he began telling me
about New York. He spoke of it that
way some men speak of a woman,
the woman. He described it, excit-
ingly, the tall shafts of steel and glass
scratching at the clouds, the rumbling
of the streets where movement never
ceased, the theatres with the dingy
fronts and the wealth of the world's
drama inside.

"I'd like to see you there, Jane," he
said. "Why, a girl with your looks,
your mind — you could take that stone
city by the heart and wring anything
you wanted out of it."

That was when I realized that I had
let myself fall in love with him. It
was the way my heart contracted
with pain that made me know. It
hurt so much because he hadn't said
he wanted me with him, hadn't even
hinted that he'd like me to be in New
York, because then I'd be near him.

"No, Rand," I said. "That's not for
me. There's nothing in New York
that I want." And inside, I cringed
from that lie. In a few days, the only
thing I really wanted would be in
New York. Rand. "I belong here,"
I said, "with my family, with my
kind of people. They need me — and —
and I need them."

He looked at me quizzically. "Don't
you ever think of yourself, Jane?
Haven't you any ambition?"

I smiled sadly. "I guess I haven't,"
I said. "I guess all I want is a decent
sort of life for myself and for other
people."

"You're a funny girl, Jane," Rand
said. "You're certainly a new type
of female for me." And he was un-
usually silent, as we drove back to
the camp. I expected him to try to
kiss me goodnight. He didn't.

It was the next afternoon that
everything turned topsy-turvy. Rand
had stopped by to offer to drive me
into town to do my shopping. I was
just putting on my hat, when little
Mrs. Liebowitz stuck her head in
the doorway.

"Janie," she said, "you are going
to town?"

"Yes," I said. "Can I bring you
something?"

"Please, Janie," she said, "bring for
my Benny a doctor."

"What's the matter with Benny?"
Rand called from his car.

"I should only know," Mrs. Lie-
bowitz said. "I'm afraid."

"Let's take a look at him," Rand
said. "Maybe we ought to take him
with us — save time."

Benny was sick, all right. He lay
on his bunk in the shabby trailer,
groaning. His hands and feet were
like ice and his thin, little body was
clammy with sweat.

OCTOBER. 1941

Mrs. Liebowitz was helpless. She
cried and wrung her hands, while
Rand and I bundled Benny into some
blankets and carried him to the car.
We put him in the back seat with his
mother. We were just about to start
off, when Mrs. Marino came running
up to us, her newest baby in her arms.

"Please — I go, too?" she pleaded.
"The bambino — I — "

"Get in the back," Rand said, with-
out any hesitation.

DAND wasted no time in getting to
1 * the hospital. He turned in at the
ambulance entrance.

While we waited in the clinic, Benny
moaned and tossed in his mother's
arms. Mrs. Marino cooed tearfully
over her baby. We waited a long
time, but the house physician didn't
come. An interne came, instead. He
examined the children.

"Typhoid," he said, finally.

"That's what I thought," Rand said.
"Well?"

"Well?" the interne repeated. "I'm
afraid you'll have to take them to the
County hospital."

"That's sixty miles from here."

"I'm sorry," the interne said. "But
we can't admit them here. They're
isolation cases and our wards are full.
Besides," he added, as if it were just
an after-thought, "they're not resi-
dents of the town."

"I get it!" Rand said ominously.
"That's lovely. And what about the
other two hundred odd children in
that camp? What about inoculating
them? What about cleaning up that
place?"

"That's the County's affair," the in-
terne said.

Rand's jaw was working and I was
afraid he was going to hit that in-
terne. Somehow, he managed to con-
trol his temper. "I suppose you've got
private wards here," he said coldly.

"Oh, yes," the interne said, "but
you have to pay in — "

"Never mind that stuff," Rand said.
"Here — " he slapped a wad of money
on the table. "You see that these kids
are attended to, right away!"

Rand wouldn't leave the hospital
until I had taken my first injection
against typhoid. Then he took my
hand and hurried me to the car.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Never mind, Jane," Rand said.
"Just come along. Now I am mad."
He ground the gears in his anger.
"These crumby, small town grafters,"
he muttered. "I'll show them!"

And suddenly, the story was pour-
ing out of him. He knew why nothing
was being done about the housing
project. He'd known, almost from his
first day in Middletown. In such a
small place, it didn't take long for
Rand to discover who was stalling the
project. It was a clique of real estate
dealers, who were cashing in on the
housing shortage. They were coining
money on exorbitant rents. They also
owned the large tract of otherwise
worthless land on which the trailer
camp had been set up. Their income
from that alone was over three thou-
sand dollars a week. And these same
men controlled the politics in Middle-
town. They owned the Mayor. They
owned the newspaper. They owned
the bank. They owned the police.

"I didn't care before," Rand said.
"Such penny ante racketeers! But

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this is too much. Those innocent kids
— it's practically murder!"

"But what can you do, Rand?" I
asked. "They may be small fry, ac-
cording to your standards, but they're
big men here."

"They're not so big that this story
on a national hookup won't blast their
nasty little game wide open," Rand
answered. "I'm wiring my home office
for air time and clearance."

He was going to do it, I thought. He
was going to do the thing he'd said
he wasn't interested in doing! Some-
thing had changed his mind, his whole
attitude. Something had ripped away
his veneer of cynicism and selfishness.
He did care about people and, deep
inside me, there was a sweet, sure
feeling that I had had a lot to do
with it.

After the telegram was sent off, he
drove me back to camp. He didn't
stop for a moment. He picked up
Julie and Bud and hurried them off
to the hospital for inoculations. And,
when he came back, he advised every-
one else to do the same thing.

WHILE all this was going on, I gave
Dad and Al and Tom something
to eat. Afterwards, I was tired and my
arm ached from the injection, so I
went inside the trailer and lay down.

I must have fallen asleep. I don't
know how long Rand had been stand-
ing there, watching me. He handed
me a crumpled telegram and without
a word went outside.

"SPONSOR SAYS NIX ON
BROADCAST STOP CONTROVER-
SIAL STOP SPONSOR DEMANDS
YOU RETURN TOMORROW AM
LATEST STOP MUST MAKE TEST
RECORD NEXT SEASONS PRO-
GRAM STOP NO RECORD NO CON-
TRACT"

I got up dazedly and went outside
to him. He was leaning dejectedly
against the side of his car. I gave him
the telegram.

"Next season's broadcast — what is
it?" I asked.

"The biggest news show on the
air," Rand said. "I've been angling
for it for three years."

It almost choked me to say it, but
I had to. "You've got to go back,
then."

"Jane — you're sending me away?
Now?"

"What good would it do for you to
stay here, now?" I cried. "You can't
make the broadcast. And, you can't
afford to throw over the big break
you've been waiting for.

"Jane — " Rand said softly. "I — I —
gee," he laughed softly, "I've gone
soft or something. But I thought — I
sort of hoped — that maybe you loved
me a little."

"What difference does that make?"
I said, trying to keep back my tears.
"How can I keep you here? This isn't
your kind of life. This isn't really
your fight. I haven't any right to ask
you to give up everything you value."

"You could come with me."

"No — no, I couldn't. I don't belong
in New York. I'd be lost there. Even
with you, I'd be lost there. How
could I ever forget my family — all
these other people? How could I ever
be happy, knowing that I'd walked
out on them, just when I might have
been of some use to them. Because,
Rand, now that we know what's been
going on, maybe we can do something
— all of us together."

"Jane," Rand pulled me close, "you
haven't answered my question. Do
you love me — a little?"

"Yes," I whispered. "But that
doesn't make any difference. We
haven't got a chance. I can't go with
you and you can't stay here. You'd
get bored and dissatisfied and, after
awhile, you'd hate me, because I'd
ruined your career. I — I'd rather lose
you now — before it hurts too much."

Rand lifted my face up to his. "Jane,
darling, listen," he said, "I told you
I'd never known anyone like you —
remember? I know why now. I was
never in love with anyone before.
You don't know what you've done for
me. You've set me free, Jane, free
of a lot of false ideas and shabby
ideals. I never realized how hollow
and artificial my life was, until I got
so angry this afternoon. That was a
good feeling. It was the most honest,
decent emotion I've had in years. It
was like being born again. And now
that I feel alive again — the way I used
to be before I turned myself into a
walking lump of ambition, do you
think I could ever go back to that?
What good would that job — or any
other job — be to me, without you,
without your love, your respect? Oh,
Jane, honey," he laughed, low in his
throat, "I sound crazy, even to my-
self. But it feels wonderful."

He buried his face in my hair and
kissed my neck. And, somehow, I
felt that I had known from the first
moment, when he stood above me, so
spick and span in his clean, summer
suit, and I grubbed in the mud at his
feet for my spilled groceries, that this
was the way it would end.

Finally, Rand stopped kissing me.
"That's enough of that — for awhile,"
he grinned. "There's work to do.
We've got to figure a way to fix these
birds." He sat down on the running
board and thought for a few minutes.
"I know," he said, at last. "This is
local stuff — I'll use the local radio sta-
tion. I've talked to the owner and
I'm sure he's honest. He'll give me
air time."

Things certainly happened fast,
after Rand's broadcast. He blew the
lid off the corruption and graft in
the County. It was a sensation and
newspapers all over the country
picked up the story.

THE day after the broadcast, Mid-
' dletown was full of reporters and
newspaper photographers, and re-
markably devoid of local politicians.
In a few days, the housing project got
under way. Rand was supposed to
break the ground for the project, but
we weren't there, by then.

We were flying to New York. Rand
didn't lose his job, after all. Right
after we were married, Rand got a
telegram from his sponsor, begging
him to come back — at twice his old
salary.

"I don't know," Rand said. "What
do you think, Jane?"

We both talked it over, weighing
the possibilities pro and con, and
finally decided that Rand could do
good work on the radio, important
work, if his sponsors would allow him
to do it. Middletown was probably
not the only town where things
needed a little fixing up, where little
people were trapped by circumstance.
So Rand wired his sponsor that he'd
take the job, if he could have carte-
blanche, provided he avoided idle
gossip and libel suits.

So, now, Rand and I spend most of
our time, flying from place to place.
I'll have to stop for awhile soon,
though, because someone has to stay
home and fix up a nursery.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

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NOVEMBER
10*

CHARITA BAUER

"Mary" of

The Aldrich Family

(See page 19)

STELLA DALLAS-See Your Favorites in Full Page Photos
Tcom'ir.lt\TnTht u°suei-JOYCE JORDAN, GIRL INTERNE

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"I'm busy evkry minutic of the day," says Mrs. Osborn.
Besides running a household, Mrs. Osborn finds time
to do Red Cross work . . . enjoy sailing, golfing, riding.
She entertains occasionally with garden parties, fre-
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favorite with my guests," says this California matron,
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NOVEMBER, 1941

VOL 17, No. 1

nnuiuEvmon

M/RROR

ERNEST V. HEYN
Executive Editor

BELLE LANDESMAN, ASSISTANT EDITOR

FRED R. SAMMIS
Editor

CONTENTS

Remember the Night. 12

It had been ten years since she had seen him. Would he remember . . . ?

Joyce Jordan, Girl Interne . .Hope Hale 14

Another famous air drama brought to you as a complete radio novel

Love Has Wings ... .Adele Whitely Fletcher 19

The beautiful love story of young Charita Bauer

Stella Dallas in Living Portraits 20

Presenting album photographs of the people you love to listen to

Amanda of Honeymoon Hill Alice Eldridge Renner 24

Continue radio's most beautiful love story

Look Who's Laughing Norton Russell 28

The hilarious story of Wistful Vista, starring Fibber McSee and Molly

We're All Americans 32

Complete words and music of the new patriotic song Kate Smith is featuring

"Love Story" Margaret E. Songster 34

"Why am I so rude to Millie?" Hal questioned savagely of his heart

Oven Varieties I Kate Smith 38

Cool days bring warming recipes

Superman in. Radio 40

A thrilling encounter in th.e deep sea-
ls There a Doctor in the House?, Nanette Kutner 46

What gives radio stars their aches and pains?

What Do You Want To Say? 3

Facing The Music Ken Alden 4

What's New From Coast to Coast Dan Senseney 8

Gladys Swarthout Gallery 31

Inside Radio — The Radio Mirror Almanac 41

What Your Hands Tell Dr. Grace Gregory 66

•

ON THE COVER— Charita Bauer, heard as Mary on the Aldrich Family, over NBC

Kodachrome by Charles P. Seawood

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR, published monthly by MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, INC., Washington and South Avenues, Dunellen, New
Jersey. General Offices: 205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. Editorial and advertising offices: Chanln Building, 122 East 42nd Street, New York. ■
O. J. Elder, President; Haydock Miller, Secretary; ('has. H. Shattuck, Treasurer; Walter Hanlon. Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221 North
LaSalle St., O. A. Feldon, Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Francisco, 420 Market Street. Hollywood: 7751 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews, Manager.
Entered as second-class matter September 14, 1933. at the Post Office at Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Price per copy in
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especially advised to be sure to retain copies of their contributions; otherwise they are taking unnecessary risk. Unaccepted letters for the "What
IX) You Wiint to Say?" department will not be returned,, and we will not be responsible for any losses of such matter contributed. All submissions
become the pro|ierty of the magazine. (Member of Macfadden Women's Group.) The contents of this magazine may not be printed, either wholly
or In part, without permission. Copyright, 1941, by the Macfadden Publications, Inc. Title trademark registered m U. S. Patent Office. Printed In the

U. S. A. by Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

What do You
want to

PITY THE POOR LISTENER

Most radio stars claim they need a
studio audience in order to give a
good performance. But the trouble is,
they favor the studio audience and
seem to disregard the listening audi-
ence. They clown around and wear
funny costumes and cause much mer-
riment among those in the studio, but
all this is lost on the listeners and
causes quite a bit of resentment.

If a radio star thinks he needs a
studio audience, okay. Let him have
it. But don't let him forget that there
are millions of people who are listen-
ing and not loofcin.gr. — Mrs. Katherine
Luckenbach, Dubuque, Iowa.

TRIBUTE TO A QUEEN!

Today my radio brought me the
voice of Eternal Womanhood, speak-
ing through the lips of a charming
lady, who is not only a kind and
sympathetic wife, a sweet, devoted
mother, but also an inspiring, and
gracious queen.

She spoke with the courage and
strength of absolute faith in a great
ideal. She spoke not so despairingly
of today as she spoke hopefully of
tomorrow; not so much of the sacri-
fices and sufferings now as she dwelt
on the rewards of victory later; not so
much of war in this generation as of a
just peace for "our children."

Elizabeth, the Woman! Long live
Elizabeth, the Queen!— Edith L. Koer-
ner, Patchogue, New York.

LET'S CALL IT PATRIOTISM

The applause given the splendid
work of numerous patriotic societies
is indeed a fine thing. However, too
little is said in behalf of the many
radio celebrities who have certainly
demonstrated their willingness to co-
operate for the many worthwhile
causes. Their contributions include
not only large sums of money, but
donation of time and talent through
gratis appearances on radio, in army
camps, etc., to aid these worthwhile
causes. To we parents having a son
in the service, this means a great deal.
We give our salute to the radio world!
— R. D. H., Amboy, 111.

FAN CLUB NOTES

Mrs. E. K. Robinson, president of
Mother Young's Circle, has moved to
182 Linden Avenue, Middletown,
N. Y.

The Bob Crosby Swing Club has
just been started. If you want to
join, get in touch with Isabel Lee, 958
Silvercrest Avenue, Akron, Ohio.

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TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION

NOVEMBER, 1941

Theresa Anna Maria Stabile — that's the name
she answered to when George Hall hired her
as vocalist with his band. Now she's Dolly
Dawn, leader of the Dawn Patrol Boys. Below,
with the man who made her success possible.

THE New York dance band season
is in full swing. A baker's dozen
of top-flight orchestras have been
booked in to the leading hotels and
the network wires of NBC, CBS, and
MBS are plentiful, thus insuring you
of many evening band broadcasts.
Here is the line-up; Glenn Miller's
band is installed once more in the
Hotel Pennsylvania. He'll stay there
until January when Jimmy Dorsey
takes over. Harry James has returned
to the Lincoln and Blue Barron is
back at the Edison. Johnny Messner
is airing from the Hotel McAlpin.

October will find Vaughn Monroe
at the Commodore; Guy Lombardo at
the Roosevelt (practically a perma-
nent Fall fixture there) ; Benny Good-
man at the New Yorker; Sammy
Kaye at the Essex House; Eddie
Duchin at the Waldorf-Astoria, and
either Horace Heidt or Orrin Tucker
at the swank Biltmore.

The fourth annual Radio Mirror
"Facing The Music" popular dance
band poll to determine, by our read-
ers' votes, the cream of the 1941-2
dance band crop, will begin in next
month's issue. Here is your chance to
cast a ballot for your favorite band-
sweet or swing. The December
column will include a ballot form.
Fill it out, send it in! The results will

be announced early in 1942. Sammy
Kaye, Eddy Duchin, and Benny Good-
man are former winners.

Latest news from the Charlie Bar-
net marital front: The madcap mu-
sician and his fourth wife, Harriet
Clark, a band vocalist, have split.

Bob Allen, who sang with the late
Hal Kemp's band for eight years, has
formed his own orchestra, crushing
the rumors that he would join Tommy
Dorsey's band and possibly replace
Frank Sinatra.

Xavier Cugat is taking a leaf from
the notebooks of Paul Whiteman,
Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman. He
will give a Latin-American concert
at Carnegie Hall October 5. A road
tour follows, winding up Jan. 1, at
Los Angeles' Cocoanut Grove.

Helen Forrest has quit Benny Good-
man's band. . . . Marian Hutton is
back with Glenn Miller, replacing
Paula Kelly. Marian took time out to
have a baby. . . . Will Bradley should
be at the Sherman, Chicago, at this
writing, airing over NBC. . . . Louise
King, Hit Parade songstress, flies
home to Chicago after each New York

By KEN ALDEN

broadcast. . . . Johnny Long was a
solid click at the Hotel New Yorker
and has been set for a return en-
gagement. . . . Bobby Hackett, an
excellent trumpeter, joins Glenn
Miller's band, scrapping his own. . . .
Shep Field's new vocal find, Pat Foy,
is an 18-year-old New York boy. . . .
Diana Mitchell is Sonny Dunham's
new warbler. . . . The Mitchell Ayres
expect a young addition to their
family. . . .

It took more than nerve for Shep
Fields to discard his rippling rhythms.
He had to replace a costly music
library, forfeit many booking dates,
and lose time hiring new men and
rehearsing them. The new band has
nine saxophones, no brass section.

John Kirby, Negro band leader,
eloped last month with Margaret
Cloud. He was formerly married to
Maxine Sullivan.

Dorothy Claire has recovered from
an appendectomy and left with the
Bobby Byrne band for a road tour.

For several weeks, Sonny Burke,
Charlie Spivak's arranger, had been
boasting to his fellow musicians that
he was about to become a father. The
boys heard it so often that they de-
cided to form a pool, betting on the
sex of the expected infant. Burke did
(Continued on page 6)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHROH

HE EPIT

of a Nice Girl

Everybody in town liked Ivy. Then be-
hind her back they began to give her a
sinister nick-name. It was "Poison Ivy"
— and every one knew what it meant
but Ivy herself. Slowly but certainly
that nasty whispered epigram became
her epitaph. Socially she was simply
finished. Men no longer sought her
company. Too often for her peace of
mind she was left out of parties that in
the past she could have counted on.

People were cool in their attitude
and sometimes dropped her without
a word of explanation. Hurt and
puzzled, she sought for an answer but
found none; people with that sort of

trouble* rarely do.

Few things are as fatal to friendship,
popularity, and romance, as a case of
*halitosis (bad breath), yet anyone may
be guilty at some time or other — with-
out realizing it. That's the insidious thing
about this offensive condition.

Consider yourself. How do you
know that at this very moment your
breath is not on the offensive side?
How foolish to guess ... to
take needless chances!

Why not let Listerine Anti-
septic help you. It's a won-
derful antiseptic and deodorant,
you know. While the condition

is sometimes systemic, food fermenta-
tion in the mouth is the major cause
of bad breath according to some author-
ities. Listerine quickly halts this fer-
mentation and makes your breath
sweeter and purer.

Simply use Listerine Antiseptic night
and morning and between times before.
social and business engagements .it
which you would like to appear at your
best. If you want others to like
you, never, never omit this de-
lightful precaution.

Lambert Pharmacai. Co.
St. Louts. \l

Before all business and social engagements let LISTERINE take care of your breath

NOVEMBEE, 1941

Benny Goodman, still a swing favorite, opens
the fall season at the New Yorker Hotel. But
Benny hasn't forgotten his concert ambitions.

Roberta, RaymohdUcott's vocalist, comes from
Dayton, Ohio, is twenty-one, and has a voice
that's equally at home with swing and ballads.

(.Continued from page 4)
most of the betting that it would be a
girl. And the proud papa wound up
the big loser. Mrs. Burke presented
him with twin boys!

DAWN OF A NEW DAY

THE fateful day George Hall turned
I over band and baton to his dimpled
discovery, Dolly Dawn, was July 4,
1941, but the decision was made two
years before as the veteran leader
tossed restlessly on a hospital bed.

Heartsick over his wife's untimely
death, which brought to a tragic
climax eighteen years of constant
companionship, the heavy-set musi-
cian was determined never to give
another downbeat again. The work
he had loved ever since he left school
to play violin in Victor Herbert's or-
chestra, was now an empty shell.
Without Lydia, who had shared his
successes and reverses, things could
never be the same again.

Then as time healed his invisible
wounds, and the memories of days
past grew dimmer, George realized
he had an obligation to a very young
girl with a song in her heart. Ever
since he had plucked her from an
amateur contest in 1933, Dolly Dawn
had become a very important part of
his life.

George recalled the day she joined
the band. He had been sitting in the
empty, table-cleared grill room of
New York's Hotel Taft, pleasantly de-
ciding which of the dozen able appli-
cants he would select to replace vocal-
ist Loretta Lee. The job was eagerly
sought because Hall, one of the first
bandleaders to employ girl singers,

Tiad the knack of developing them into
accomplished performers on his nu-
merous CBS broadcasts.

"Don't you remember me?" asked
a peap-squeak voice.

Hall looked up and saw a plump,
pert, pretty young kid, scared to
death, and clinging cautiously to her
mother's arm.

"No," he snapped, lighting his in-
evitable cigar, "I never saw you be-
fore in my life."

Tears began to trickle in the girl's
eyes.

"But, Mr. Hall," she countered,
"two years ago I won $50 first prize
in a Newark amateur contest you di-
rected. Why, you even got me a job
singing on a radio station."

This refreshed Hall's memory. Yes,
there had been a young girl, very,
very young; couldn't have been more
than fourteen, who could sing a song
with childish enthusiasm.

Hall signalled to his pianist, led the
girl to the bandstand, and ferreted
out a piece of music from her worn
briefcase.

The girl hadn't finished a half-
chorus when Hall jumped from his
chair, turned to his ever-present wife,
Lydia, and "said: "This is it!"

"What's your name, child?" asked
Mrs. Hall.

"Theresa Anna Maria Stabile," the
girl blurted out.

"That will never do," said the Halls
in unison.

When the happy youngster left the
hotel some hours later, she not only
had a job but the name of Dolly
Dawn. George, Lydia, and a group of
helpful songpluggers had a part in
the re-christening.

In a few months, Dolly Dawn won
a permanent place in the hearts of
George and Lydia Hall. Childless, the
couple became devoted to their "girl."
Dolly began calling George "Popsy"
and wouldn't make a move without
him. Lydia picked out her clothes,

made her cast off some unnecessary
poundage, and devised a new coiffure.

Dolly was an immediate success.
Fan mail poured in. Business, always
plentiful at the Taft, a virtual George
Hall stronghold (he played there
eight consecutive years), increased.
Hall wanted to make sure his newest
prodigy wouldn't leave him. This un-
happy experience had occurred too
often.

Because Dolly was fifteen at the
time she joined the band, and the laws
of New York State prohibit a minor
signing a business contract, it was
decided that George become Dolly's
legal guardian. This was acceptable
to Dolly's parents. Dolly became
the bandleader's adopted daughter.
Nevertheless, Dolly is still very at-
tached to her real parents, visits them
regularly, and contributes to their
support.

When George Hall was discharged
from the hospital, his spirits were
brighter and his plans promising.
They evolved around Dolly. The
name "George Hall and his Orches-
tra" might never light a ballroom
marquee again, or spin dizzily across
a phonograph record's face, but
"Dolly Dawn and Her Dawn Patrol
Boys" would carry on.«. «,•?

"I developed the . Idea slowly,"
George told me. ■ "I taught her all I
knew about conducting. She was a
good pupil. And five years of voice
study helped considerably. Dolly
reads, music and can play piano. In
a few months she was able to take a
test and get a card from our local
musicians' union, 802."

This local will not give a leader a
card unless the person is able to play
an instrument.

A few changes were made in the
band's personnel in order to make it
more youthfully streamlined. The
boys in the band liked the change.

"Gosh," explained Dolly, "those kids
are all my friends."

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

George had little trouble convincing
his booking office and others that the
new order would click. Bluebird
records gave Dolly a contract and the
band was immediately hired by New
York's Roseland Ballroom and began
broadcasting from this spot on NBC.
After a short excursion to Baltimore,
the Dawn Patrol returns to Roseland
in November.

Dolly is getting the thrill of her
life. I watched her put the band
through its paces and realized this
22-year-old, five-foot-two, auburn-
haired girl meant business. She ma-
neuvered her baton with professional
adroitness. She had a good teacher.

To George it is a new and pleasant
experience. He directs all the band's
business details, is head man during
rehearsals, and is painstakingly care-
ful about the broadcasts.

Only when the lights dim in the
ballroom and the dancers applaud en-
thusiastically, does a tail, kindly man,
eyes glued on Dolly, stand silently in
the shadows of the bandstand, and
make a forceful admission.

"I guess this is the only time when
I really miss not being up there."

OFF THE RECORD

Some Like It Sweet:

Bing Crosby: (Decca 3840) "You
and I" and "Brahms' Lullaby." An en-
gaging ballad written by Meredith
Willson, coupled with an intelligent
treatment of a soothing classic. Glenn
Miller (Bluebird), Kay Kyser (Colum-
bia) and Dick Jurgens (Okeh) give the
Willson tune, "hit" endorsement. •

Charlie Spivak: (Okeh 6291) "So
Peaceful in the Country" and "What
Word Is Sweeter Than Sweetheart."
This seems to be ballad month and
here's another winner. Spivak's peace-
ful trumpet provides a rustic back-
ground.

Artie Shaw: (Victor 27499) "Why
Shouldn't I?" and "Georgia On My
Mind." For those who desire a more
sophisticated brand of rhythm, here's
Shaw's treatment of a 1935 Cole Porter
piece.

Ehric Madriguera: (Victor 27487)
"Danza Lucumi" and "Moon In The
Sea." The rumba record market is
bullish but I'd buy this stock and hold
on to it.

Kay Kyser: (Columbia 36253) "I've
Been Drafted" and "Why Don't We Do
This More Often?" The best of the
conscription tunes and practically
Sully Mason's one-man show.

Tommy Dorsey: (Victor 27508) "This
Love of Mine and "Neiani." Tommy
Dorsey gets the billing on this platter
but it's Frank Sinatra from start to
finish. The reverse is Hawaiian. Now,
how did you guess that?

Some Like It Swing:

Gene Krupa: (Okeh 6278) "After
You've Gone" and "Kick It." Roy
Eldridge's trumpet ride on this oldie
is spectacular. Exciting swing.

Shep Fields: (Bluebird 11225) "Hun-
garian Dance No. 5" and "Don't Blame
Me." No more ripples, no more straws.
Subtle swing featuring nine saxo-
phones. Interesting. You'll never miss
the brass section.

Jimmy Lunceford: (Decca 3892)
"Peace and Love For All" and "Blue
Prelude." Interesting slow swing, with
the first tune obviously based on the
Jewish chant, "Eli Eli." Strictly for
curiosity seekers.

Find your way to new Loveliness
Go on the Camay

MILD-SOAP DIET!

Thii lovely bride, Mrs. Allen F. Wilson of Detroit, Mich., says: Tm thrilled by what
the Camay 'Mild-Soap' Diet has done for me. It's simply wonderful! I'm telling all
my friends about this wonderful way to help keep their complexions beautiful."

your skin Camay's gentle care. Be con-
stant—it's the day to day care that reveals
the full benefit of Camay's greater mild-
ness. And in a few short weeks you can
reasonably hope to see a lovelier, more
appealing skin!

Try this exciting idea in beauty care
— based on the advice of skin spe-
cialists— praised by lovely bridesl

YOU CAN BE lovelier— you can attain a
fresher, more natural-looking beauty
by changing to a "Mild-Soap" Diet.

How often a woman lets improper
cleansing cloud the natural beauty of her
skin . . . and how often she uses a soap not
as mild as a beauty soap should be !

Skin specialists advise regular cleans-
ing with a fine nuld soap. And Camay is
milder by actual test than ten other pop-
ular beauty soaps tested. That's "why we
say— "Go on the 'Mild-Soap' Diet!"

Twice every day-for 30 days-give THE SOAP OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

Camay is milder by actual recorded test
other popular beauty soaps Camay was mi

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Work Camay's miMrr lather
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Then, while you sleep, the tiny
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morning— one more quick ses-
sion with milder Camay and
your skin is ready for make-up.

NOVEMBER, 1941

WHAT'S NEW

from

COAST to COAST

Shirley Ross co-stars with Milton
Berle and Charles Laughton on the
new MBS program, Three Ring Time.

|T LOOKS as though comedy will
be the style this radio season. Not
, only are all the old favorites re-
turning after their summer vacations
— Jack Benny, Burns and Allen, Eddie
Cantor, Fred Allen, McGee and Molly,
Bergen and Charlie McCarthy with
Abbott and Costello, Bob Hope, Al
Pearce — but there are several new
entries. Frank Fay, undiscouraged
by sad memories of a few years ago,
will have his own show again, starting
in late October. Bob Burns blossoms
out as a full-fledged star in a weekly
half-hour series, The Arkansas Trav-
eler, which advance news says will be
a combination of comedy and drama.
Hal Peary, the Mr. Gildersleeve of
Fibber McGee's shows, is star of The
Great Gildersleeve Sunday nights.
And Ransom Sherman, who changed
his radio name to Hap Hazard last
spring to become Fibber's summer
replacement, did so well that he's
continuing under the same sponsor-
ship, as an additional show, after

Fibber returns to the air.

* * *

Then there are comedy-dramas —
humorous continued stories as dis-
tinguished from a collection of gags.
Several of these seem to have caught
sponsors' interest. The most promis-
ing of the new lot, perhaps, is Captain
Flagg and Sergeant Quirt, with Victor
McLaglen and Edmund Lowe — a con-
tinuation of the adventures of those
two hardboiled "What Price Glory"
heroes. You can tune them in Sun-
day nights on NBC-Blue. Another
likely prospect, although time and
network haven't been set yet, is Mr.
and Mrs. North, based on a hit Broad-
way play. It's about a slightly dim-
witted wife and her long-suffering
husband — but of course the wife al-

In late October comedian Frank
Fay comes back to the air on his
own Thursday-night NBC-Red show.

ways solves the problems that beset

the couple.

* * *

NASHVILLE, Tenn.— Roy Acuff,
leader of the Smoky Mountain Boys
on station WSM's famous program,
the Grand Ole Opry, might have
turned out to be a baseball player
instead of a radio star if his parents
hadn't been so anxious to keep him at
home.

Roy was born in Maynard:rrille,
Tennessee, in 1907. His father was
a minister, and the family was con-
stantly being transferred to new
parishes, so that Roy seldom went to
any one school for more than a couple
of terms. Maybe this was a good
thing — anyway, it taught him to make
new friends quickly, an ability that
has helped him in his radio career.

When he was in high school, a base-
ball scout saw Roy playing with his
team, and offered the boy a tryout
with the New York Yankees. He was
wild to accept it, but his parents didn't
want him to leave home and go to
the city, so they very cleverly offered
him a fine new violin (costing $25)
if he'd refuse the chance. The violin
won, as music has always won with
Roy. Since his earliest youth he'd

By Dan Senseney

Roy Acuff, leader of the Smoky
Mountain Boys on WSM's Grand Ole
Opry, almost was a baseball star.

had music in his soul, and used to
spend hours with his grandfather,
learning Tennessee mountain songs.

Roy started his radio career near
his home town at station KNOX,
Knoxville, Tenn. About four years
ago he came to WSM to join the Grand
Ole Opry cast, and was a big hit from
his very first appearance. Today, in
many places, his phonograph records
outsell Bing Crosby's. Last year Roy
and the Smoky Mountain Boys took
time out to appear in the movie called
"Grand Ole Opry."

The Golden Rule is Roy's main
philosophy of living, and his friends
are all intensely loyal. His con-
tagious personality endears him alike
to people he meets on the air and in
person. He's married but does not
have any children.

The Smoky Mountain Boys include
Rachel Voach, who plays a lot of five-
(Continued on page 10)

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NOVEMBER. 1941

Anita is her name — just Anita — and she's the tiny brunette who sings for listeners
to WLW in Cincinnati. Only twenty-one, she's been in the movies as well as radio.

News from Coast to Coast

(Continued from page 8)

stringed banjo, sings, and does comedy-
bits; her brother Oswald, who plays
the guitar and the steel guitar and
does comedy with Rachel; Lonnie
Wilson, playing guitar and bass and
impersonating the character known as
"Pap"; Oral "Odie" Woods, who plays
bass fiddle, guitar, fiddle, and does a
one-man band with a wash board and
all the trimmings; and Jesse Ester ly,
another man of many talents who
plays mandolin, guitar, violin and
bass. With such a versatile bunch of
performers, no wonder the Smoky
Mountain Boys are one of radio's
most popular acts.

* * *

Meredith Willson has a new alarm
clock. Instead of clanging harshly
in his ear of a morning, it plays a
Swiss music box arrangement of the
song hit, "You and I," which he com-
posed. All Mrs. Willson's idea — she
gave it to him on their wedding anni-
versary.

* * *

Leopold Stokowski may direct the
NBC Symphony Orchestra this winter,
at least for several of its Saturday-
night broadcasts. Since Toscanini and
NBC parted company at the end of
last season, the network's been look-
ing around for a big-name conductor
to take the fiery little genius' place.

CINCINNATI— If your heart throbs
to melodies that are sweet and low,
you should know Anita.

That's the name she prefers to be
known by— just Anita. She's a tiny
brunette, standing only five feet, one
and three-quarters inches in her
stocking feet and weighing just 102
pounds. For the past year she has
been at Cincinnati's station WLW, fea-
tured on the Moon River and Scramby
Amby programs.

Born in New York City twenty-one
years ago, Anita lived in the east and
in Canada for some time and then
went to Hollywood with her parents
soon after her ninth birthday. Her
skyrocketing career began when she
was sixteen and was successful in an
audition for a Mutual program called
Juvenile Revue. Other jobs on the
air and in night clubs followed so fast
that when she was eighteen Anita
gave up college to concentrate on
singing.

She came to WLW direct from
Hollywood after appearing in such
movies as "Babes in Arms," "Dancing
Co-Ed" and "Forty Little Mothers."

Anita names her mother, Mrs. Lil-
lian Kurt of Hollywood, as her guid-
ing genius. "If it hadn't been for
her," she says, "I'd probably be a
stenographer today. I was studying
short-hand and typing when Mother
dared me to try for the audition for
Juvenile Revue. Well, I made it and
here I am. So far as I'm concerned,

Tom Pyle, left, came to WBT
to take Dick Lane's place —
and remained to carve a se-
cure place of his own in
listeners' affections. Utah
Pete, right, never rode a
horse until recently, but
he's KDYL's star singer of
cowboy tunes just the same.

Mother always knows best."

Her plans for the future are very
definite. She wants to sing for an-
other few years, in New York, Holly-
wood, and even abroad if possible,
until she's at the top of the ladder.
Then she plans to sing no more, pro-
fessionally at least, but devote- her
time to being a talent agent, helping
other people to "be successful.

Publicly, Anita doesn't intend to be '
married. Privately, she confesses to
more than ordinary interest in a
young man back to California. Her
hobbies are reading and music — the
latter from the works of such com-
posers as Debussy, Sibelius and Grieg.
Whenever she gets nervous she takes
a long walk, over windy hills prefer-
ably.

* * *

CHARLOTTE, N. C— When pianist-
singer Dave Lane pulled up stakes at
Charlotte's station WBT and headed
for Hollywood, the Duke Power Com-
pany couldn't seem to find anyone to
take his place as star of its programs
on WBT. There just wasn't anyone
in the immediate vicinity who was
good enough, so talent scouts went
looking over a wider circle, all the
way across the North Carolina hills,
and finally turned up with Tom Pyle.

Tom's a young baritone who had
been rocking the Tennessee audiences
with his songs for several years. He
could sing difficult German lieder
with as much ease as he could swing

along on the latest popular number.
When he came to WBT for an audi-
tion it didn't take the sponsors long
to hire him, and now he's starred on
Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays
at 11:45 A. M. on WBT.

Tom is only twenty-three years old,
but he's already had a lot of vocal
training. His first teacher was Swed-
ish, a Madame Edla Lund, who took
him under her wing when he was
singing just for the fun of it, and
taught him how to do it according to
the rules. Then he went to Tusculum
College in Greenville, Tenn., and
studied there for four years. Last
summer he was at the Juilliard School
of Music in New York, where Goen-
raad Bos coached him in lieder; he
sang successfully at the Virginia Fed-
eration of Music Clubs last April, and
got a recent compliment from Law-
rence Tibbett, who ought to know
good baritone singing when he hears
it.

A personable young fellow, intel-
ligent and friendly, WBT's new star
shows promise of developing into one
of the section's best-liked personali-
ties. He's still a bit scared at the
thought that 50,000 watts are kicking
his voice miles in every direction —
for when you think of it, not many
people step almost straight from
school to stardom on a commercial
radio show. But then, not many
singers have the kind of voice Tom
possesses, or his will to succeed. His
record at college shows how hard a
worker he is. He was president of
the glee club for three years, presi-
dent of the student body, chairman
of the student council, editor of the
college annual, vice president of the
dramatic club, and in charge of a
series of college radio programs pre-
sented monthly over the local radio
station. Yet with such a full schedule
of student activities he found time to
be a good student and to work in the
terrific amount of practice necessary
to proper voice training.

Tom's greatest ambition is to sing
at the Metropolitan Opera or on the
concert stage. Tibbett is his favorite
singer and Benny Goodman his favor-
ite swing music leader — and inciden-
tally, he is crazy about swing.

• * *

As pretty a girl as Louise King,
soloist on the CBS Hit Parade show
Saturday nights, never is able to re-
main single very long. Louise went
out of circulation recently when she
became the bride of Jimmy Both,
talented staff saxophonist with NBC
in Chicago. That means airplane
commuting for Louise, since her
weekly shows come from New York.

• * *

Raymond Gram Swing has turned
himself into a country gentleman by
buying a 250-acre farm halfway up
Putney Mountain in Vermont. He'll
probably turn it and the old Cape Cod
farm house on it into a summer home
for himself and his family, since it's
a little too far away from his Mutual
broadcasting headquarters in New
York for year-around living.

• * *

SALT LAKE CITY, Utah— "Utah
Pete" is the name KDYL listeners
know him by — but as a matter of
fact the star of KDYL's Dude Ranch
program is really from Wisconsin and
his name is Emanuel Miller.

Since he first began playing his
banjo and singing on the Dude Ranch
about a year ago, Pete has made
(Continued on page 63)

NOVEMBER, 194]

My Husband
fell out of^%cv&

How a wife overcame the

ONE NEGLECT

that often wrecks romance

T COULDN'T UNDERSTAND IT when Paul's
love began to cool.

We'd been so gloriously happy at first.
. . . But now he treated me as if ... as if
there were a physical barrier between us.

Finally I went to our family doctor and
explained the whole situation frankly.
"Your marriage problem is quite a common
one," he told me.

"Psychiatrists say the cause is often the
wife's neglect of feminine hygiene. That's
one fault a husband may find it hard to
mention — or forgive.

"In cases like yours," the doctor went
on, "I recommend Lysol for intimate per-
sonal care. It's cleansing and deodorizing,
and even more important — Lysol solution
kills millions of germs on instant contact,
without harm to sensitive tissues."

I bought a bottle of Lysol right away.
I find it gentle and soothing, easy to
use. Economical, too.

No wonder so many modern wives use
Lysol for feminine hygiene. And ... as

for Paul and me . . . we're closer than
ever before.

Check this with your Doctor

Lysol is NON-CAUSTIC— gentle and efficient
in proper dilution. Contains no free alkali.
It is not carbolic acid. EFFECTIVE — a power-
ful germicide, active in presence of organic
matter (such as mucus, serum, etc.). SPREAD-
ING— Lysol solutions spread and virtually
search out germs in deep crevices. ECONOMICAL
— small bottle makes almost 4 gallons of
solution for feminine hygiene. CLEANLY
ODOR — disappears after use. LASTING —
Lysol keeps full strength indefinitely, no mat-
ter how often it is uncorked.

PASTE THIS COUPON ON A PENNY POSTCARD
■p What Every Woman Should Know
Free Booklet Sent in Plain Wrapper
Lehn A Fink Product* Corp.
IVpt. K T.M.-llll. Bloomfield. N. J.. 0. S. A.
Send me (in plain wrapper) free bookl«t on Feminine
HvKiene and many other Lyaol uara.

Name

So-ert

Cur Suu

C.-errliM lMlbr I-ehn* Fink rrodoctl Corp

emem

ber

IT was only one o'clock, and
Tommy Brown wasn't due until
three, but the store was already
full of high school kids. I wasn't
the only one, I thought, to whom
this day was something special —
something so exciting that I'd worn
my prettiest dress, so exciting that
my feet danced on the floor in un-
controllable little steps and laugh-
ter bubbled up to my lips over
things that weren't funny at all.

There was only one difference
between me and these kids. They
weren't scared because they were
going to see Tommy Brown in per-
son, and I was, a little. Maybe, to
tell the truth, more than a little.

I wanted to keep busy, so I
wouldn't have to think about the
moment he'd come in at the door,
but there wasn't anything left to
do. Tommy's newest records were
stacked carefully on the counter.
A desk with fresh blotting paper
and a couple of fountain pens was
neatly set up in one corner, where
Tommy could sit and autograph
the records as they were brought to
him. Mr. Wiscinski, who owned
the music shop, peered down dis-
approvingly from his tiny office on
a railed-in gallery above the front
of the store. Mr. Wiscinski hated
popular music and high school kids
made him nervous, but he knew
this scheme of mine would sell a
lot of records so he'd let me go
ahead with it.

He didn't know that the main
reason I'd arranged to have Tommy
Brown come in and autograph rec-
ords was to give myself an excuse
for meeting him again.

There were plenty of people in
town who said they remembered
Tommy, now that he was rich and

famous. But I really remembered
him so well. . . .

He'd been a thin boy, in clothes
that were shabby and ill-fitting, so
that you saw a length of sinewy
wrist above his hands before the
cuff began. It was easy to tell why
his clothes were always so small —
because he was still growing too
fast, and his mother couldn't afford
to buy new ones to keep up with
him. He didn't play on the football
or basketball teams, and he wasn't
on the staff of the yearbook, and he
didn't go to the dances in the gym-
nasium. Every minute he wasn't
actually in school, almost, he was
working in Thomas' Grocery Store.

Not many of us paid any atten-
tion to him at all, not even enough
to notice that he was a good-look-
ing boy in his shy, gawky way, with
taffy-colored hair and strange eyes,
brown with gold flecks in them, and
full, too-sensitive lips. I hardly
noticed him myself, because it seems
I was violently in love, just about
then, with a muscular half-back
named Spud Donovan. . . .

"You're too hard to please,"
Mother had said once. "Every
young man you meet seems won-
derful to you for a little while —
and then you find out he's only hu-
man and you don't like him any
more."

Well — I forced my thoughts back
to Tommy Brown — I hadn't paid
much attention to him either, until
one night, late, after the rehearsal
of the Senior Play. I'd gone back

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

to the gymnasium to get a book I'd
forgotten, and as I passed the music
room I saw a light and heard some--
one playing the piano. I opened
the door and there he was, head
bent over the keys, his fingers fly-
ing, and the room filled with a
melody I'd never heard before. It
lasted only a few seconds, and then
he looked up and saw me. He
jumped to his feet, tearing his
hands away from the keyboard as
if it had burnt them.

"Miss Thatcher said I could use
the piano," he said defensively —
and then just stood there, waiting
until I realized he wanted me to
go and wouldn't start playing again
until I had. So finally I closed the
door and went on down the hall, a
little angry, a little curious.

After that, for the few weeks of

NOVEMBER, 1941

He wps as arrogant as ever,
but he did the last thing
I'd ever have expected.

school that were left, I used to
smile and say "Hello" to him when
we passed in the halls on our way
between classes. But I didn't talk
to him again until the night of the
Senior Ball.

Spud took me to the dance, but
after we got there we had a fight,
and to show his independence he
disappeared entirely — joining, I
suspected, some stags in the locker
room of the Country Club, where
the Ball was held. I wouldn't let
the others see that I'd been de-
serted, so I walked out of the club-
house. Rounding a clump of bushes
at the far end of the terrace, I al-
most ran into Tommy Brown.

He muttered something and
started to go away, but I put out
my hand to stop him. He was in
the graduating class too, and he
should have been inside with the
rest of us. But of course, as usual,
he wasn't.

"Don't go away, Tommy," I said.
"Stay and talk to me."

"I was just going by — " he said
stiffly.

Ten years had passed. Alice
never forgot the fine, thin
boy with the ill-fitting

clothes. But this wasn't the

Tommy she used to know.

This man was so different!

"It's such a beautiful night," I
said. "I don't want to go back in-
side, anyway."

He looked up at the sky, and
around him at the wide rolling
stretch of the golf course, as if he
were seeing it all for the first time.
Everything was black and silver,
and there was the scent of honey-
suckle in the air. "Yeah," he said
wonderingly, "it is pretty, all right.
I could— I could play it on the
piano."

"You play beautifully," I said.
"Do you take lessons?"

"No — just picked it up. We used
to have a piano at home, before — "
But he didn't finish that sentence.
I suppose he'd been going to say,
"Before we had to sell it."

"No lessons!" I marvelled. "Why,
that's amazing! What was that
piece you were playing the other
night, in the music room? It
sounded awfully difficult."

"That? Oh — nothing. Just some-
thing I made up."

His voice sounded uninterested,
almost sullen, but just then he
moved, stepping to one side a little
so that some light from the terrace
fell on his face. And it wasn't
sullen at all, it was lonely, and
wistful, and full of the knowledge
that he'd been shut out from the
rest of our smug, thoughtless high-
school world. Although my pride
wouldn't let me show it, that was
the way I felt too, since my quarrel
with Spud.

"I'd like to go home," I said im-
pulsively. "Won't you take me,
Tommy?"

"Why — why, sure," he said. "Only
— we'll have to walk."

"That's all right." I told him. "It
isn't far." (Continued on page 52)

lown who btiiu mcjr .

Tommy, now that he was rich and named Spud Donovan. .

)

,.«U irHC iciicaxub

of the Senior Play. I'd gone back

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

\emember

IT was only one o'clock, and
Tommy Brown wasn't due until
three but the store was already
full of high school kids. I wasn't
the only one, I thought, to whom
this day was something special-
something so exciting that I'd worn
my prettiest dress, so exciting that
my feet danced on the floor in un-
controllable little steps and laugh-
ter bubbled up to my lips over
things that weren't funny at all.

There was only one difference
between me and these kids. They
weren't scared because they were
going to see Tommy Brown in per-
son, and I was, a little. Maybe, to
tell the truth, more than a little.

He didn't know that the main
reason I'd arranged to have Tommy
Brown come in and autograph rec-
ords was to give myself an excuse
for meeting him again.

There were plenty of people in
town who said they remembered
Tommy, now that he was rich and

Ten years had passed. Alice
never forgot the fine, thin
boy with the ill-fitting
clothes. But this wasn't the
Tommy she used to know.
This man was so different!

famous. But I really remembered
him so well. . . .

He'd been a thin boy, in clothes
that were shabby and ill-fitting, so
that you saw a length of sihev/y
wrist above his hands before the
cuff began. It was easy to tell why
his clothes were always so small —
because he was still growing too
fast, and his mother couldn't afford
to buy new ones to keep up with
him. He didn't play on the football
or basketball teams, and he wasn't
on the staff of the yearbook, and he
didn't go to the dances in the gym-
nasium. Every minute he wasn't
actually in school, almost, he was
working in Thomas' Grocery Store.
Not many of us paid any atten-
tion to him at all, not even enough
to notice that he was a good-look-
ing boy in his shy, gawky way, with
taffy-colored hair and strange eyes,
brown with gold flecks in them, and
full, too-sensitive lips. I hardly
noticed him myself, because it seems
I was violently in love, just about
then, with a muscular half-back
named Spud Donovan. . . .

And now, I thought while the kids
in the music store put another of
Tommy's records on the big ma-
chine, Spud Donovan was married
to that funny little Marge Harris,
and they had two children, and i
was still Alice Carr, twenty-six
years old and not getting any
younger. Not that I regretted Spua
Donovan, not for a minute, but _
. "You're too hard to please^
Mother had said once. 'Every
young man you meet seems won
derful to you for a little wniie--
and then you find out he's only nu
man and you don't like him any
more." . cjj

Well— I forced my thoughts w
to Tommy Brown— I hadn t V^
much attention to him either,
one night, late, after the reheai
of the Senior Play. I'd. gone bac^

RADIO AND «■»»»»» «•»"*

to the gymnasium to get a book I'd
forgotten, and as I passed the music
room I saw a light and heard some--
one playing the piano. I opened
the door and there he was, head
bent over the keys, his fingers fly-
ing, and the room filled with a
melody I'd never heard before. It
lasted only a few seconds, and then
ne looked up and saw me. He
jumped to his feet, tearing his
hands away from the keyboard as
lf it had burnt them.

"Miss Thatcher said I could use
the piano," he said defensively—
and then just stood there, waiting
until I realized he wanted me to
so and wouldn't start playing again
un"l I had. So finally I closed the

liwF and went on down the hal1, a
"tie angry, a little curious.
^ter that, for the few weeks of

He was as arrogant as ever,
but he did the last thing
I'd ever have expected.

school that were left, I used to
smile and say "Hello" to him when
we passed in the halls on our way
between classes. But I didn't talk
to him again until the night of the
Senior Ball.

Spud took me to the dance, but
after we got there we had a fight,
and to show his independence he
disappeared entirely— joining, I
suspected, some stags in the locker
room of the Country Club where
the Ball was held. I wouldnt let
the others see that I'd ^en de-
serted so I walked out of the club-
house. Rounding a clump of bushes
at the far end of the terrace, I al-
most ran into Tommy Brown.

He muttered something and
started to go away, but I pu t o£
my hand to stop him He**sh"
the graduating class too, and he
should have been inside with the
rest of us. But of course, as usual,

^S'go away, Tommy," I said.

"Stay and talk to me.

"I was just going by—
stiffly.

"It's such a beautiful night," I
said. "I don't want to go back in-
side, anyway."

"You play beautifully," I said.
"Do you take lessons?"

"No — just picked it up. We used
to have a piano at home, before — "
But he didn't finish that sentence.
I suppose he'd been going to say,
"Before we had to sell it."

"No lessons!" I marvelled. "Why,
that's amazing! What was that
piece you were playing the other
night, in the music room? It
sounded awfully difficult."

"That? Oh— nothing. Just some-
thing I made up."

"I'd like to go home, I said im-
pulsively. "Won't you take me,

Tommy?" „.,„

.■Why—why, sure," he said. Only

—we'll have to walk."

"That's all right," I told him. It

isn't far." (Continued on page 52)
13

INTERNE

THIS is kind of a celebration,"
Paul said. His tone was light
and diffident, much too casual,
which should have warned her. But
even the deep look of his brown
eyes as he leaned across the table
to her only made her wonder for
the thousandth time just what
peculiar quality of shape or shine
about those eyes made them so dif-
ferent from all other eyes, so un-
believably exciting. And again the
thrill surged through her that this
tall, wide-shouldered man was
miraculously her husband.

Yet even in the physical closeness
that warmed her and quickened
her pulse, her mind clung stubborn-
ly to the scene at the hospital she
had just left. That was how the
trouble began.

"Celebration?" she said vaguely.
Her soft lips smiled in the gentle
way that made patients settle down
and breathe more easily, but behind
the calm blue of her eyes she
thought intensely about the per-
plexing problem that had con-
fronted her.

Paul continued to speak, but
more tensely, as though he instinc-
tively felt the need to break through
her thoughts.

"Yes. I'm going to do something
I've been wanting to do for years."

"Really?" Joyce said. "That's
swell, Paul." But still she was
thinking of what the Superinten-
dent of Nurses had said —

"You don't ask me what," Paul

Another Famous Air Drama
Brought to You as a

[\t°.

.**#*

said, and afterward Joyce could re-
member the edge his tone had taken.

"I'm sorry, Paul. What?"

"I'm going to write a book."

"A book?" Oh how wrong that
kindly, absent-minded tone of hers
had been. "Why, that's fine." And
she continued to think how very
strange it had been, all the same,
that when she, a doctor, had gone
out of her way to try to fix things
up with that nurse, she had got
simply nowhere.

"I guess you heard wrong," Paul
said and the distinctness with which
he spoke still had not impressed
her. "I said I'd quit niy job!"

She heard that. "Quit ... Oh
Paul . . ."

In her instinctive pause, she lifted
her eyes to him. His mobile red lips
had tightened at the corners and he
studied her with an intentness very
different from the look of incredu-
lous appreciation she had seen so
often during the six months of their
marriage.

"Are you so sorry?" he asked.

"Sorry?" she repeated. "Oh no,
it's not that, Paul. It's just that—"
She stopped awkwardly, the rush
of her thoughts holding her back
from saying anything more.

Paul had quit his job! In the
half year that she had been Mrs.
Paul Sherwood she had resolutely
closed her mind to the problem of
money. Marriage had been enough,
gloriously so. The fact that she
must continue to live at the hospital
until she had finished her interne -
ship, while Paul went on keeping
house at his bachelor apartment,
had not been enough to prevent
their falling in love so desperately
that they'd married in a wonderful,
exciting rush.

The hospital paid Joyce exactly
$25 every month, barely enough for
a single girl with no need for a
wardrobe, pitifully inadequate for
a bride who dreamed of a home of
her own. Paul's newspaper paid
him what it had always paid its
reporters — enough for Paul to con-
tinue as a bachelor, hopelessly short
for a bridegroom who pictured an
extravagant future for his wife.

So Paul had quit.

"Darling!" His hand came over
the red and white checked table
cloth to cover hers. "I've — I've got
some money saved. It won't be so
bad." The love had come gleaming
back into his eyes, giving them a
sweetness that caught her breath
and made her feel almost faint.

"But now tell me," she said firm-

■*mm&

As an exciting Hctionization by Hope Hale, read the story of the
dramatic radio serial heard dally on CBS, Monday through Friday,
sponsored by La France, Satlna, and Postum. Photographic illus-
trations posed by Ann Shepherd as Joyce, Myron McCormlck as Paul.

... —

They had fallen in love, so desperately they
had married in a thrilling rush. But had such
need for each other blinded them? Joyce
felt the chill of sudden terror as she
realized she was losing her husband

ly, determined not to be afraid.
"What kind of book are you going
to write?"

Paul's face relaxed in a happy
smile. "Well — " he began. "A sort
of survey of the world scene as war
begins to sweep over it and a kind
of political contrast between Europe
and our own hemisphere."

"Oh," Joyce said and immediately
realized that she had not kept
disappointment out of her voice.
Yet she had been disappointed. It
was so unlike Paul to talk in such
big terms as "survey of the world
scene" and "political contrast." Paul
wrote simple, human stories about
simple people that often made
Joyce cry. She wanted to say, "But
Paul, why not write what you know
how to write?" Instead she said,
"That sounds like rather a large
order, darling."

It must have sounded wrong to
Paul. He flushed. "If all those
other roving correspondents can
turn out books like that, I don't
see why I can't — "

"You can," Joyce said, too late
now to be convincing. "It's just
that every time another book like
that comes out it makes it that
much harder for the next one to be
as popular." She reached for his
hand which nervously was making
tiny caps out of the paper from
cubes of sugar. "If being the best
newspaper man in the world is what
it takes, you've got it." But was
that what it took? Joyce pushed

Her work was Joyce Jor-
dan's life — was that why
she seemed unable to find
her happiness in marriage?

GIRL INTERNE

Yet even in the physical closeness
that warmed her and quickened
her pulse, her mind clung stubborn-
ly to the scene at the hospital she
had just left. That was how the
trouble began.

Paul continued to speak, but
more tensely, as though he instinc-
tively felt the need to break through
her thoughts.

"Yes. I'm going to do something
I've been wanting to do for years."

"Really?" Joyce said. "That's
swell, Paul." But still she was
thinking of what the Superinten-
dent of Nurses had said —

"You don't ask me what," Paul

Another Famous Air Drama
Brought to You as a

said, and afterward Joyce could re-
member the edge his tone had taken.

"I'm sorry, Paul. What?"

"I'm going to write a book."

"I guess you heard wrong," Paul
said and the distinctness with which
he spoke still had not impressed
her. "I said I'd quit niy job!"

She heard that. "Quit ... Oh
Paul . . ."

"Are you so sorry?" he asked.

"Sorry?" she repeated. "Oh no,
it's not that, Paul. It's just that—"
She stopped awkwardly, the rush
of her thoughts holding her back
from saying anything more.

Paul had quit his job! In the
half year that she had been Mrs.
Paul Sherwood she had resolutely
closed her mind to the problem of
money. Marriage had been enough,
gloriously so. The fact that she
must continue to live at the hospital
until she had finished her interne-
ship, while Paul went on keeping
house at his bachelor apartment,
had not been enough to prevent
their falling in love so desperately
that they'd married in a wonderful,
exciting rush.

So Paul had quit.

"But now tell me," she said firin-

gs an exciting fictlonlxatlon by Nope Hole, read the story of f*«
dramatic radio serial heard daily on CBS, Monday throng* Friday,
sponsored by La France, Satina, and Posfiim. Photographic »'«*■
trations posed by Ann Shepherd as Joyce. Myron McCormlclr at P««'-

heyhadfa,,e-!"'-e.sodesperote.yhey
hadmarrlediBa^'H«9 rush. But had such
Beed f0f eaeh •«"' blinded them? Joyce
*'♦ *• chill of sudden terror os she
realized she wos losing her husband

lv, determined not to be afraid.
"What kind of book are you going
to write?"

Paul's face relaxed in a happy
smile. "Well— " he began. "A sort
of survey of the world scene as war
begins to sweep over it and a kind
of political contrast between Europe
and our own hemisphere."

It must have sounded wrong to
Paul. He flushed. "If all those
other roving correspondents can
turn out books like that, I don't
see why I can't — "

"You can," Joyce said, too late

v now to be convincing. "It's just

) that every time another book like

W that comes out it makes it that

k much harder for the next one to be

as popular." She reached for his

hand which nervously was making

tiny caps out of the paper from

cubes of sugar. "If being the best

newspaper man in the world is what

it takes, you've got it." But was

that what it took? Joyce pushed

Her work was Joyce Jor-
dan's life — woi that why
she seemed unable to find
her happiness in marriage?

back a lock of the gleaming black hair that would not
stay in a proper pompadour and tried to push the
thought away with it.

"You really think I'm good?" Paul's hand gripped
hers with sudden painful strength.

"The best reporter in the world," Joyce repeated,
wondering if he noticed that she kept it strictly in the
realm of newspapers, not books. Afterward she
scorned this half honesty. Why hadn't she come
right out and put it into so many words, straight and
clear between them? And it was easy to figure out
the answer. Because she had been so careless of his
words at first, hardly hearing his big news, she did
not dare. Her inattention had made him think her
own work was more important to her than his, and
she couldn't add to that the crowning insult of ex-
pressing doubts about the kind of ability he had.

But it would have been better. Anything would
have been better than his dark, half-formed doubts,

unexpressed and all the more troubling because of
that. They were in his eyes now.

"Then it's all okay?" he asked her.

"All okay," she said. "If you felt you should quit,

why — "

"Why what?" he said. He narrowed his eyes at
her. "You're still not sure," he challenged.

INVOLUNTARILY her lashes flicked down. He said,
"Ah, I was right. It couldn't be that salary check
you were thinking of, could it?"

"Of course not," she said quickly. "We'll manage."
They would too. But how?

"It won't take me so long," he said. "With my back-
ground it ought to be a cinch to turn out — "
"A cinch!" Joyce stared.

Instantly the dark frown came back, tensing his
thin face. "You don't think I'm up to it, do you?"
"I just meant that I didn't think any book could be
a cinch — " Joyce floundered miserably.

"I see." He paused a minute. Then he said,
"Suppose we skip all this. I didn't mean it to
take so long, anyway. It's your turn. What
was this hospital thing that's worrying you so?"
Joyce shook her head. "It wasn't important.
Nothing like so important as your big news — "
"If it could compete with that big news of
mine," Paul said, "I guess it's important enough
to tell me." Was there a barb in that? At the
time she had not felt it. She had taken him at
his word, and her thoughts had flown back to
seize on the problem she had left unsolved —
relieved, perhaps, to drop a subject that seemed
so dangerous.

"It's the queer way I've got involved in a
nurse's affairs," Joyce said, thinking of the
scene in Dr. Simon's office an hour before. "It's
not a bit usual for everybody to get stirred up
because one nurse made a mistake and got
bawled out for it. But in this case they asked
me to go back and square it' with the nurse.
And she's, a strange girl, this Hope Alison — "
Joyce tried to remember and recapture for
him the extraordinary luminous whiteness of
the girl's skin, the way the widow's peak of
rich bronze hair cut sharply into the white of
the high forehead, the queer long gray-green
eyes that turned up slightly at the outer corners
to give an air of mystery to them, increased by
the heavy shadowing of lashes so dark as to
look black until the light caught their coppery
glint; the sensitive mouth so beautifully shaped
and yet somehow — yes, somehow wrong: tor-
tured, unsatisfied, perhaps even cruel, if only
to herself. "She's hard to describe," Joyce said,
giving up.

"Sounds like a common or garden variety
of redhead to me," Paul said. "They're always
trouble makers, full of themselves — "

"Oh, she's more than that," Joyce said quick-
ly. "Ever since she came here from the
Canadian hospital where she trained, they've
put her on the most difficult cases in the Chil-
dren's Wing. She has some curious kind of
sympathy for kids that's like magic; practically
mesmerizes them. Everything went fine till
she took on this seven-year-old girl who
couldn't seem to get well, even though all the
typical organic symptoms had cleared up. It

Tiny's jaw was set grimly, his big
hand shaking off her restraining one.

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

wasn't two days till she had the
case figured out. And right, too.
Only her mistake was in telling the
wrong person. The mother had
been coming in every day filling
the girl's head full of spite about
the father whom the mother was
divorcing. The child apparently
loved her dad, and every afternoon
when Mama left her temperature
was sure to be up. Miss Alison
spoke right up to the mother and
practically accused her of murder."

"That doesn't sound like the
wrong person," Paul said. "She was
the one that had it coming to her,
wasn't she?"

"Yes, but a hospital can't have
nurses talking that way to patients'
relatives. And in this case all it
did was to start the woman tearing
the building down around our
ears. Naturally I had to speak pretty
sharply to the Alison girl — "

"Poor kid."

Joyce opened her mouth to an-
swer, but her voice didn't come.
She sat looking into Paul's face. Of
course it had been hard on the
nurse. But for Paul to see only the
nurse's side, not hers —

ANYWAY," Joyce said, her voice
i a little flat, "it seems she
couldn't take it. She tried to re-
sign. They didn't want to lose her,
especially when this was just one
mistake on a fine record. Miss
Richards can't bear to see talent
wasted. So they asked me to try to straighten her
out. And tonight I tried — " She broke off, her eyes
clouded again.

"No luck?"

"Well, as long as we stuck to the case, she was
fine, very reasonable and surprisingly wise. But the
minute I tried to get to her personal side of the situa-
tion, I couldn't touch her. I even invited her to come
and see us, but she declined, with thanks. There's
something queer — wrong — about that girl, and it's
my job to do something about it. I can't rest till
I do!"

Paul laughed. It was not an unkind laugh, but not
a mirthful one either. "I know," he said. "That's
Dr. Joyce Jordan. That's my — wife — " He let his
voice trail off, frowning. Joyce felt a queer little
pang of fright. She said quickly, "But that's all.
There isn't any more. I'm going to drop the subject."

"Oh, no, you're not," Paul said. "You'll pretend
to, but you won't fool me. Until you crack that nut,
there won't be any Mrs. Sherwood. There'll just be
Dr. Jordan. So I guess it's up to me."

"To you?"

"Sure. Turn me loose on her. Takes a man to
cure her sickness."

"Her sickness?"

"Of course. It's a clear case of man
trouble. You'll see."

Joyce laughed. "All right, Dr. Sher-
lock Sherwood, I'll call you on the case.
You pick me up at the hospital tomorrow
for dinner and I'll have her there waiting,
needing only . your expert diagnosis and
prescription."

NOVEMBER, 1941

They heard Hope's voice, high and excited in unashamed flattery:
"Why Paul, that's simply marvelous. The book'll make you famous!"

That was the way they left it.

She called Hope Alison down to the interne's lounge
to meet her at six. "Dr. Collins is coming to dinner
at our place," she told the nurse. "I think you might
like him. Won't you do us a favor by making a
fourth?"

The girl's lips tightened and she made an involun-
tary movement toward the door as if she wanted to
run away. "It's awfully good of you, Dr. Jordan, but
I'm afraid — "

She stopped then, her eyes staring at the door
toward which a moment before she had been trying to
escape. Paul was standing there.

The sight of him did something to Joyce. It always
did. A wave of heat left her weak, and the back of
her head prickled as if she were about to faint. He
looked marvelous in the soft light gray homespun
suit, and the warm spring weather had flushed his thin
cheeks, so that his eyes shone even brighter than usual.
Yet it was not just his looks, it was his whole presence,
the light, easy way he carried his wide shoulders, the
liveness of his expression as he gave her a quick smile.
Then his eyes met Hope Alison's. There was a
moment of silence while they looked at each other.
Something about it, some electric, breath-
less quality of importance, kept Joyce
from speaking. Maybe it was just a min-
\\ ute, but it seemed an age till she got her

voice and said, "Hope, this is my hus-
band."

It was over, then. Hope Alison's smile
was conventional as she made her
acknowledgment. Paul said. "What's the
program? Have you given in yet to my

Uv>\0

masterful wife, Miss Alison? Let
me warn you, you might as well do
it now as later."

It was then that Joyce felt the
almost physical discomfort that was
to last through this strange evening.
Why should she mind if Paul joked
about her being "masterful?" But
she did. In that moment she almost
wished that Hope would hold to her
refusal.

But she didn't. "If you say it's
useless to resist — " She made a
graceful little shrugging motion of
her slender shoulders.

"It is, I guarantee. How soon will
you be ready?"

"Don't wait," Hope said. "I have
to change out of my uniform. I can
find my way — "

"Nonsense," Paul said. "I'm so
used to waiting around this hospital
that if I walked out of here within
half an hour it would put me off my
stride all evening."

Again Joyce felt that wincing
discomfort. It was true that he did
a lot of waiting for her, because in-
ternes never could get away quite
on time, if at all, but that was not
her fault. Paul understood that,

>co*t

It was then that the tears came — wnen
she found Paul's bathrobe hanging in
the closet — the only thing he had left.

and it was implicit in the jokes that
were just between them. Why did
it seem so different now? "Tiny's
coming at seven," she said cheer-
fully. "He can show Hope the
way — "

"Tiny?" Paul made a face that
sent Tiny into the realm of unim-
portant details. "We can't trust this
important matter to him."

"All right." Joyce spoke brightly
from the door. "I'll run ahead and
get the potatoes in to bake."

Strange how forlorn she felt,
though, as she left the hospital
alone. Strange and silly. She told
herself it was nonsense to feel mar-
tyred when she carried the big bag
of groceries up the four flights to
the apartment. She had brought
Paul this problem and he was help-
ing her with it, that was all. He
had made an effective start, that
was clear. He had got Hope to
accept, and now it would be a good
party. With Tiny's gayety, his
wholesome bigness, his bubbling
fountain of absurd conversation,
they'd have Hope out of the despon-
dency that had made her wish to
resign.

Something went wrong, though,
with Tiny's cheer. He was fine when
he arrived. Seeing him, having him
there helping her, made Joyce relax
and know that all was right with
the world. He even made a story
of three lost appendices very funny,
while he set the table. "I bet the
famous Dr. Conroy is gnashing his
teeth that he got only three of them,
though," Tiny chortled. "The fourth
at that bridge table got away. She
went to another doctor and found
her tummy ache was only a mild
case of food poisoning." He stood
balancing a plate on one finger, his
gray eyes a merry gleam of light
in his solid face.

Joyce looked up at him from the
onions she was slicing. "It's the
first time I ever laughed at Con-
roy's unnecessary butchering," she
told him.

"Nuts," Tiny said. "You're not
laughing now. That's a case of
onion hysterics."

Joyce wiped her streaming eyes
on the sleeve of her blue smock.
"Not altogether — "

It was then that the change came
over Tiny. He had been grinning
when the door opened to admit
Paul and Hope. But the grin dis-

appeared, wiped off with comic
completeness, leaving a look of
blank amazement on his round face.
The plate began to tip, and with a
wild ducking motion he caught it
and got very busy setting the table
again.

"Miss Alison, this is the wit of the
internes' lounge, court jester to Dr.
Simon," Paul said. "In other words,
Dr. Tiny Collins. Tiny, Hope Ali-
son."

Tiny made a sort of gasping gulp
and rushed to the kitchen for more
dishes. Joyce in the doorway had
to dodge his blind dash. "What's
come over our blithe giant?" Paul
asked. "I never saw him struck
dumb before. Quite the contrary — "

BUT Joyce had guessed. And it
was plain to everyone before
the evening was over. Something
had happened to Tiny that had
never happened to him before. And
it was Hope.

"I wish it hadn't hit him quite
so suddenly," Joyce said to Paul
when the others had gone. "If he
could have been himself, let her see
him that way a while, first, then — "

"Then what?"

Joyce looked up to see that Paul
had stopped in the midst of unty-
ing his tie and was frowning at her.

Joyce looked at him, puzzled. "I
mean he'd be wonderful for her.
His good humor, his healthiness — "

"His dumb insensitivity, you
mean!" Paul's almost angry voice
made Joyce stare in astonishment.
"How do you think a big lug like
Tiny could help a girl whose trouble
is caused by too much sensitivity?"

At first Joyce couldn't answer.
Then she asked quietly, "What is
her trouble, Paul?"

"Well, maybe it'll sound trite to
you." Paul still frowned, staring
at his big brown brogues, his voice
almost defensive. "The same old-
story: a young doctor in this
Canadian hospital where she
trained — " He told it, and it did
sound trite to Joyce. Hope's cer-
tainty that what was between them
meant marriage, and then the sud-
den announcement of his engage-
ment to the daughter of the Chief
Surgeon.

"You were right, then," Joyce
told him. "It was man trouble,
after all."

"Yes, but not just that," Paul
said with a faraway look in his
brown eyes. "It's a lot more com-
plicated. I think it started way
back in childhood with her relations
to her family, the way her mother
and father split up, neither of them
giving a darn about her — "

"That must be why she slipped
up and told (Continued on page 69)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

HAS WINGS

Theirs to have one last enchanted evening before he left to
rejoin his air corps training in Canada — but that was long
enough for Charita to know that this was love in her heart

By Adele Whitely Fletcher

Lovely Charita Bauer, Radio Mirror's
cover girl, is heard as Mary on NBC's
Aldrich Family broadcasts. Handsome
Charles Wicker is the son of radio's
famous singing lady, Ireene Wicker.

NOVEMBER. 1941

iHARITA slept with goggles on
so the morning sun coming
through the windows hung
with white chintz in which big red
strawberries grew wouldn't wake
her. She was in a hurry to read
the notices of the play in which she
had opened the night before. The
director, the star, and all of the
company had done their best but
they hadn't been able to bring it
off. And they knew it.

Following the opening there had
been a party. It had been three
o'clock when Charita reached home.
And she had lain awake for hours
thinking about the young man who
had been her escort and comparing
him with Charlie Wicker. It was
nothing new for her to think about
Charlie far into the night. She had
thought about little but him for
four years and more, ever since she
was fourteen and he was fifteen and
they had met at one of his mother's
broadcasts. It had been hard to
tell then which had been the greater
shock, meeting Charlie or trying to
believe that lovely Ireene Wicker
could have such a grown up son.

The young man with whom she
had just spent the evening had been
very kind. He had done his best to
convince her there still was hope
for the play, that it had good spots
in it, really. Charlie wouldn't have
hovered over her that way in a
million years. He would have ex-
pected her to know she had a flop,
to be {Continued on page" T?5)

IN LIVING PORTRAITS

Presenting, in fascinating album photographs, the people you love
to listen to on one of radio's most human dramas, sponsored Monday
through Friday on NBC's Red Network by Phillips' Milk of Magnesia

STELLA DALLAS (right) is a
woman of rare beauty and courage.
She was born of poor parents and her
life has been one of continual hardship,
yet Stella has been able to keep a shin-
ing spirit. She has a daughter, Laurel,
whom she left with her husband,
Stephen Dallas, after their divorce.
When you first met Stella, she had
come back to her daughter again after
years of hardship and toil. She had left
the child in care of her husband because
she felt that his wealth and social posi-
tion would give the girl advantages she
could not afford. Stella won the respect
of her daughter and then her love. Ever
since, she has been fighting to keep it
against the will of the very socially
prominent Mrs. Grosvenor, Laurel's
domineering, aggressive mother-in-law.
(Played by Anne Ehtner)

BOB JAMES (left) is an intelligent,
sensitive boy of twenty. He was born
in the slum district of New York, but
this background could not stifle his
desire to make a mark in the world.
When Stella first met Bob, she pitied
him with a kind, understanding pity,
because his background was not unlike
her own. They became fast friends and
when Stella made some money she very
generously offered to put Bob through
the finest law school in the country.
In spite of his scholastic ability, Bob,
like most boys his age, gets into trouble
now and then. Not long ago, he went
to Washington, became innocently
involved in the slaying of a gangster
and was accused of murder. He was
cleared, but not before Mrs. Gros-
venor was able to cause Stella trouble.
(Played by Albert Aley)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

M a

■

ED MUNN is a loud, boisterous, free spending fellow, always in search of a good time. He loves
Stella Dallas and has proposed many times, but, while Stella values him as a loyal friend, she has
never seriously considered his offers of marriage. Ed often causes Stella embarrassment because of
his lack of social graces and Mrs. Grosvenor looks upon him as quite uncouth and blames Stella
for his conduct. But Ed is a fine man at heart and those who love Stella are deeply attached to him.

(Played by Arthur Vinton)

***£..

Photos by NBC

MINNIE GRADY is a sharp tongued, slightly unkempt but very lovable old Irishwoman. Minnie first
met Stella when they were both working in a Boston sweatshop and ever since then she has been a
very loyal and wonderful friend. The years haven't been too hard on this big hearted, vehement little
woman. She and her husband, Gus, now own a farm in Massachusetts and it has often proved to be a haven
for Stella, a place where, in Minnie's good care, she can forget the cares and troubles that befall her.

(Played by Grace Valentine)

COMING NEXT MONTH: MO beautiful photographs of Laurel, Dick, Stephen Dallas and Mr.. Grosvenor

OF HONEYMOON HILL

AMANDA sat huddled on the
edge of the corn cob bed in
the back room of Aunt Mattie's
cabin. Her eyes, dark with hope-
lessness, strayed from her clasped
hands to the bolted door. It did
not matter that her father had
placed her in the old woman's
care, or that he had locked her in;
freedom was now stripped of any
meaning. I have no place to go,
no one to help me, she thought
with sick despair; I trusted Ed-
ward, I believed him when he
promised to save me from all I
hated. She jumped to her feet,
anger adding its burden to the pain,
which, deep, persistent, kept hurt-
ing, hurting like a physical bruise.
She did not see the green trees, or
the flowers, or the blue sky, as she
stood, staring out through the tiny
slit of a window at a world bereft
of hope because it was bereft of
dreams.

And pride sent the color sweep-
ing into her white face, because she,
Amanda Dyke, of old Valley stock,
had sought help, and had failed to
receive it, from one whom her peo-
ple scorned as an outlander. Her
hands caught and held the narrow
sill before her as memories of the
last few days held her motionless.
Born in the Valley, knowing noth-
ing but its ways, she had always
longed for something more beauti-
ful— different — and no one had
ever understood her desires. She
believed her father, in his stern
manner, loved her, but he had seen
no reason why she should not be
married to a man she hated.

Amanda forgot for a few minutes
her present hopeless situation, as
she thought of the day she had fled
from her father's cabin and the un-
bearable touch of Charlie Harris'
hands, crying she would die before

she would be his wife, and in a se-
cluded glen on the hillside, had
first seen Edward Leigh ton. How
kind he had been, how gentle! He
lived on Honeymoon Hill, in that
white house she had so often
watched from the distance, glim-
mering through its encircling trees
— a place of dreams. He had begged
her to come to him there, so he
could paint her; he had said she
was lovely — he had been the first
to tell her that her red gold hair
was a thing of beauty, hot some-
thing of which to be ashamed. And
she had gone — oh, now she knew
she should not have done so — and
he had started her portrait in the
peaceful stillness of Honeymoon
House, and she had seen the
white, golden and cold girl, Sylvia
Meadows, whom he was to marry.

Amanda moved restlessly over
the uneven floor and the rag rugs
of the little room. Then — then — to
have rushed up the hill in the dark-
ness of that same night, when her
father, having learned she had been
to Honeymoon House, had declared
she would never leave his cabin
again until she went to marry
Charlie. To have begged Edward
Leighton to save her, to protect
her — she should have known, but
he had been the only one to whom
she could turn, he had been the
only one who had ever shown her
consideration and kindness.

The color mounted across her
neck, staining her face. He had
promised that he would never let

Now, in exciting fiction form, read the
ttory of lovely Amanda and tune in every
weekday to NBC's blue network, spon-
sored by Cal-Aspirin and Haley's M-O.
frustration posed by Joy Hathaway as
Amanda and Boyd Crawford as Edward.

her go back into the Valley, that
she would be safe. He had taken
her to his mother, Susan Leighton.
at Big House, and she had been so
utterly, so wonderfully happy. But
at the very height of her happiness,
at the dance, in the beautiful dress
Edward and his Uncle Bob had
found for her . . . Little pictures
flashed before Amanda's eyes, and
she pressed her hands tight against
her face to shut them out, but could
not. The great hall of Big House,
the guests watching her, Edward
beside her, her voice singing the
words of an old English ballad, and
out of the night, the tall, dark fig-
ure of her father, coming to take
her home, home to the man she
hated, to the life from which she
had escaped. Edward had let her
go; he had broken his promise. How
clearly she remembered the satis-
fied expression of Susan Leighton,
the cruel, little smile on the lips of
Sylvia Meadows; she felt again the
cold, numbing terror as Edward
failed her; now she felt only a sick
hopelessness, a bitter resentment.

CHE found her way back to the
bed, and dropped down on it.
What did it matter now that she
would be wed to Charlie? She was
an ignorant Valley girl who had
never gone to school; she had been
told that black trouble came if one
of her people had aught to do with
the rich tobacco planters who lived
on the surrounding Virginia hills,
but she had trusted her heart — and
her heart had been wrong.

"Hi, Amanda," a low voice called,
and she lifted her head. At the sight
of the pert, child's face looking in
through the narrow opening at her,
she tried to smile. "Come here,
come here, so as I can talk to you."

She rose to her feet, wearily, and

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRBOR

A moment before she had known the first sweet rapture of love, but now there
was only the bitter memory of a broken promise. Continue radio's beautiful
love story of a girl from the Valley and the man she should never have met

crossed to the tiny opening, criss-
crossed with slats which served as
the room's only window.

"I heard the news." The boy's
eyes were big with excitement. "All
the Valley's talking about how you
run away so as not to marry Charlie,
how your Pa had to get you, and
how you're locked up here. If you
want, Amanda, I'll find that there
Edward Leighton and tell him
where you are."

"No, no, Jim. I'll never trust an
outlander again — never — never — "

"Amanda, don't you look so white
and woeful; you let me help you,"
Jim pleaded. "I don't like that
Charlie Harris nohow."

Even in her deep distress,
Amanda smiled. Dear, little Jim,
with his cruel father; how faithful
he had been since the day she had
saved him from a wicked beating.
But no one could help her. All she
said was: "Thank you, Jim, but I
don't want ever to see Edward. And
he wouldn't come if I did. Don't
shame me by asking him."

Jim's sharp eyes twinkled; he
shook his head.

"Still, if I see him I'm going to
tell him where you are."

He dropped to the ground, and
disappeared in the thick under-
growth behind the cabin. Amanda

Amanda's rippling red-gold
hair, her fair skin and deep
violet eyes, made Edward for-
get she was only a Valley girl.

NOVEMBER, 1941

looked after him for a second, but
even as the bushes stopped rustling,
she turned and flung herself across
the bed once more. How different
this was from that wonderful, soft
bed in which she had slept for one
night in Big House under Susan
Leighton's roof. She tried to force
her thoughts away from what had
happened, but to think of the fu-
ture was even worse. At any min-
ute, now, her father might take her
to be married to Charlie Harris.
She turned her head on the hard
pillow as tears forced themselves
under her closed eyelids. She would
grow old like all the other Valley
girls, worn out with heavy work
and child bearing; it was her fate.
But as she heard a sound, she
twisted her face farther into the
pillow, and shut her lips to keep
back the rising sobs. It would be
Aunt Mattie, or, perhaps, her father.
How could she face it if they had
come to get her —

AMANDA — dear Amanda — " She
l sat up in bed, wide eyed,
quickly wiping away her tears. Her
face became set as she swung her
feet to the floor, and walked to the
window. "Amanda, oh, my dear — "
It was Edward calling her name, it
was Edward looking in at her, it
was he who reached his hands
through the slats toward her. "I've
found you. That little boy was
right. Thank God, you're safe —
I'm in time."

Her heart was beating, beating
very fast, but her voice held no
emotion as she said:

"You broke your word to me.
You let Pa take me away. Go back
to your own home, Edward Leigh-
ton, and don't ever come to the
Valley again."

"You don't understand;" his
words were hurried, desperate;
"Amanda, let me talk to you. I can
explain." He leaned closer toward
her, but she stepped quickly aside
so he could not touch her.

Why, why had he come to add
more to her already heavy burden?

"Go away, Edward," she re-
peated, "go to that Sylvia who is to
be your wife. It hurts that I should
have asked you for help, and for
you to • have failed me. Go home,
Edward—"

"I will not," he cried. "Amanda,
you must listen." There was a new
quality in his voice, a certainty
that had not been in it before. "I
didn't fail you. Suppose, Amanda,
I had kept you, had forced your
father out of the house before all
those people? Everyone in the Val-
ley would have known of his dis-
grace— he'd have been shamed
before his friends, and the hate

between the Valley and the Hills
would have been worse than ever.
That's what I thought, Amanda. I
may have been wrong, but I was
thinking of you. You wouldn't have
wanted your father to be insulted
by the Leightons, would you?"

His words were broken, filled
with tension, and Amanda moved
slowly nearer, light creeping into
her eyes. He caught her hand.

"If you speak truth, Edward, it
was kindly done. Can I believe
you?"

"You can, you must." He held
her fingers tightly in his. "I'll never
let you go again. Come into the
woods with me, I — I have so much
to say to. you — "

"But I can't — I can't get out. Pa
brought me here to Aunt Mattie's,
and they've bolted the door and — "
Her head dropped forward on the
worn sill, and he smoothed the
rippling curls with gentle fingers.
Suddenly, she looked up, with a
startled gasp.

"But you must go, Edward. If
Pa found you here, he'd — you'd be
in danger — " She caught his arm,
trying to push him away.
Edward Leighton laughed.
"Stop worrying, my dear. I'll
have you out in a minute."

He was around the side of the
cabin, and Amanda strained her
ears, her hand at her throat, where
the pulse beat rapidly. Aunt Mattie
was due at any second, her father
might come — Edward, Edward, she
whispered. There was a crash, the
splintering of wood; the bolt of her
door was thrown back, and Edward,
laughing into her wide eyes, had her
hands in his, and was drawing her
out into the bright sunshine of the
summer morning. Fear for him,
terror of what might happen if he
were discovered, mingled with a
wild, tremulous rapture, sent her
running beside him through the
woods. Breathless, flushed, she
stopped at last, to see she was in
the glen where she had first met the
man now smiling so reassuringly
into her eyes. He took her hands,
and his face was grave, tender and
eager. Joy surged into Amanda's
heart, for her faith had been re-
stored, and the whole world held,
once again, beauty and meaning.

"Amanda," he spoke, slowly,
never taking his gaze from her,
"Amanda — my beautiful — You
don't know all that's happened. I
am not going to marry Sylvia."

"Why?" she asked, direct as a
child. And the excitement within
her kindled to a sudden exaltation.
Somewhere a bird sang, and the
song was hers. His hands were
pressing on hers; he was very close
to her.

"Because I don't love her, any
more than you love Charlie. Our
marriage was arranged, just as
yours was."

She nodded, her eyes still direct.

"I talked to mother and Sylvia
last night. They understand." Ed-
ward smiled, a trifle grimly. There
was no need to tell Amanda any de-
tails of that scene, of Susan's
shocked disappointment and dis-
approval, of Sylvia's cold anger, the
resentment in her face, but no hurt,
thank God for that, no hurt. He
had won his battle; the future was
his and Amanda's. She read the
deepening passion in his eyes, even
before he spoke. "My dear, I love
you. You will marry me, won't
you?"

"You want to wed me?" her voice
was low, joy ran through it. Dazed

with wonder, she caught her breath.
"I love you — "

And he drew her to him, and
kissed her lips, and held her close.
The bird song rose triumphant on
the summer air, but they heard only
the beating of their hearts, the
whispered, broken words they mur-
mured and knew nothing of the
world around them, lost in the
'wonder of their first kiss. Amanda's
head rested on his shoulder, and,
at last, she spoke:

"Your mother, Edward. She
doesn't like me."

"Hush, dear, hush, no worrying.
Tell me, Amanda, what is the first
duty of a wife?"

"To obey her husband, to please
him, and to always do as he says,
of course."

Edward laughed; his fingers

smoothing her hair, his eyes on the
long, dark lashes brushing her
cheeks. "I thought you'd say that.
Now, you must obey me, and leave
everything to me. We are to be
married; it's all settled, mother
knows."

Amanda sprang to her feet with
a sudden cry; all the lovely color
drained from her face.

"Then, come, Edward, come now,
and don't delay. When Pa finds I'm
gone, he'll get the Valley men, and
if he finds us here — oh, my love, it
won't be safe for you."

He stood beside her, and put his
arm around her, once more holding
her to him.

"I love it here," he said, softly,
"for this is where I first saw you,
running out from among the trees,
so beautiful I couldn't believe you

were real. And in my heart, I knew
I loved you at that minute, though
I didn't understand."

"I must have loved you, too, Ed-
ward, or I wouldn't have come to
you to aid me."

His hands on her shoulders, he
looked at her: the rippling red-
gold hair, the fair skin, the deep
violet eyes. He bent and kissed her,
and then, hand in hand, like two
children, they passed from the glen
into the woods, and up the hill to
where, white in the distance, glim-
mered Honeymoon House. At last,
they stopped before it on the green,
sweeping lawns, and Amanda's eyes
were wide with the awe of dreams
come true, as Edward said:

"This will be your home, my dear
— our home."

She clapped her hands together.
"It is so wonderful, just as you are
wonderful, Edward. I'll be a good
wife. You must tell your mother
that, and then, maybe, she'll be glad
we are to be wed."

"She'll love you when she learns
to know you, dear. We're going to
her now. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything if
you're with me, Edward."

And there was a lump in his
throat as he led her through the
door of Big House to where his
mother sat alone in the cool,
shadowed living room. Her greeting
was friendly; she drew Amanda
down beside her on the couch; she
looked from the girl's face, flushed
like a wild rose, to her son's bright
eyes, and sighed.

"Oh, Mrs. Leighton," Amanda ex-
claimed, her voice vibrant with the
happiness in her heart, "I am so
joyful. And I'll be a good wife to
Edward. I'll do what he says; I'll
care for him. It's all so wonderful
I can't think straight. I don't rightly
know whether I'm here or there. It
doesn't seem true unless I look at
Edward, and then I know — I
know — "

"Yes, I'm sure you do want to
make Edward happy." Susan Leigh-
ton spoke slowly.

"Indeed, and indeed, I do. It's
the one wish of my life."

Mrs. Leighton nodded. "For that
reason I would like to talk to you
alone for a little while. I have so
much to say. We must learn to know
one another better — "

"That's fine," Edward exclaimed.
"It's what I want more than any-
thing— for you two to know and
love each other. Mother, you're be-
ing splendid."

Susan smiled, not a happy smile,
but neither noticed it; they saw
only the other. Edward bent and
kissed Amanda, and she clung to
him like a {Continued on page 57)

AMANDA — dear Amanda — " She
i sat up in bed, wide eyed,
quickly wiping away her tears. Her
face became set as she swung her
feet to the floor, and walked to the
window. "Amanda, oh, my dear — "
It was Edward calling her name, it
was Edward looking in at her, it
was he who reached his hands
through the slats toward her. "I've
found you. That little boy was
right. Thank God, you're safe —
I'm in time."

Her heart was beating, beating
very fast, but her voice held no
emotion as she said:

"You broke your word to me.
You let Pa take me away. Go back
to your own home, Edward Leigh-
ton, and don't ever come to the
Valley again."

"You don't understand;" his
words were hurried, desperate;
"Amanda, let me talk to you. I can
explain." He leaned closer toward
her, but she stepped quickly aside
so he could not touch her.

Why, why had he come to add
more to her already heavy burden?

"Go away, Edward," she re-
peated, "go to that Sylvia who is to
be your wife. It hurts that I should
have asked you for help, and for
you to. have failed me. Go home,
Edward — "

between the Valley and the Hills
would have been worse than ever
That's what I thought, Amanda. I
may have been wrong, but I was
thinking of you. You wouldn t have
wanted your father to be insulted
by the Leightons, would you.

His words were broken, filled
with tension, and Amanda moved
slowly nearer, light creeping into
her eyes. He caught her hand.

"If you speak truth, Edward, it
was kindly done. Can I believe

YOU?'*

"You can, you must." He held
her fingers tightly in his. "I'll never
let you go again. Come mto the
woods with me, I— I have so much
to say to. you — "

"But I can't— I can't get out. Pa
brought me here to Aunt Mattie's,
and they've bolted the door and—"
Her head dropped forward on the
worn sill, and he smoothed the
rippling curls with gentle fingers.
Suddenly, she looked up, with a
startled gasp.

"But you must go, Edward. If
Pa found you here, he'd — you'd be
in danger — " She caught his arm,
trying to push him away.

Edward Leighton laughed.

"Stop worrying, my dear. I'll
have you out in a minute."

He was around the side of the
cabin, and Amanda strained her
ears, her hand at her throat, where
the pulse beat rapidly. Aunt Mattie
was due at any second, her father
might come — Edward, Edward, she
whispered. There was a crash, the
splintering of wood; the bolt of her
door was thrown back, and Edward,
laughing into her wide eyes, had her
hands in his, and was drawing her
out into the bright sunshine of the
summer morning. Fear for him,
terror of what might happen if he
were discovered, mingled with a
wild, tremulous rapture, sent her
running beside him through the
woods. Breathless, flushed, she
stopped at last, to see she was in'
the glen where she had first met the
man now smiling so reassuringly
into her eyes. He took her hands,
and his face was grave, tender and'
eager. Joy surged into Amanda's
heart, for her faith had been re-
stored, and the whole world held,
once again, beauty and meaning.

"Amanda," he spoke, slowly,
never taking his gaze from her,
"Amanda — my beautiful — You
don't know all that's happened. I
am not going to marry Sylvia."

"Because I don't love her, any
more than you love Charlie. Our
marriage was arranged, just as
yours was."

She nodded, her eyes still direct.

"You want to wed me?" her voice
was low, joy ran through it. Dazed

ith wonder, she caught her breath.

..j love you— " ....

And he drew her to him, and
kissed her lips, and held her close.
!L, bird song rose triumphant on
the summer air, but they heard only

(he beating

of their hearts, the

whispered, broken words they mur-
mured and knew nothing of the
world around them, lost in the
•wonder of their first kiss. Amanda's
head rested on his shoulder, and,
at last, she spoke:

"Your mother, Edward. She
doesn't like me."

"Hush, dear, hush, no worrying.
Tell me, Amanda, what is the first
duty of a wife?"

"To obey her husband, to please
him, and to always do as he says,
of course."

Edward laughed; his fingers

cheeks. "I thoul, r?Shlne her
Now.youiTE/r^,^-

knows" S aU Settled' ^ther

drained fromheJ face ^ Color

'Then, come, Edward, come now

and don't delay. When PaTnds Fm

gone hell get the Valley men an"
if he finds us here-^h, my love it
won't be safe for you."

He stood beside her, and put his
arm around her, once more holding
her to him. 5

"I love it here," he said, softly,

for this is where I first saw you

running out from among the trees'

so beautiful I couldn't believe you

iZlT1 And in my heart- l knpw

KyoVtthatmmute- *<>"<*

i didn t understand."

wrrHmUSt,haVe loved >'ou- ^o. Ed-
ward, or I wouldn't have come to
you to aid me."

uiliSJhands on her shoulders, he
looked at her: the rippling red-
gold hair, the fair skin, the deep
violet eyes. He bent and kissed her
and then, hand in hand, like two
children, they passed from the glen
into the woods, and up the hill to
where, white in the distance, glim-
mered Honeymoon House. At last,
they stopped before it on the green,
sweeping lawns, and Amanda's eyes
were wide with the awe of dreams
come true, as Edward said:

"This will be your home, my dear
— our home."

She clapped her hands together.
"It is so wonderful, just as you are
wonderful, Edward. I'll be a good
wife. You must tell your mother
that, and then, maybe, she'll be glad
we are to be wed."

"She'll love you when she learns
to know you, dear. We're going to
her now. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything if
you're with me, Edward."

"Yes, I'm sure you do want to
make Edward happy." Susan Leigh-
ton spoke slowly.

"Indeed, and indeed, I do. It's
the one wish of my life."

Mrs. Leighton nodded. "For that
reason I would like to talk to you
alone for a little while. I have so
much to say. We must learn to know
one another better—"

"That's fine," Edward exclaimed.
"It's what I want more than any-
thing—for you two to know and
love each other. Mother, you're be-
ing splendid."

Susan smiled, not a happy smile,
but neither noticed it; they saw
only the other. Edward bent and
kissed Amanda, and she clung to
him like a (Continued on page 57)
27

$?/£ Mo'sc;/lu^m(a

You will be, when you read this gay story of Wistful
Vista, where Fibber McGee and Molly meet Edgar Bergen
and Charlie McCarthy and get involved with airplanes,
electric washing machines, romance, and high finance

I HAT guy Throckmorton P.
Gildersleeve, Fibber McGee fumed,
was at it again. Here Fibber, as
President of the Wistful Vista
Chamber of Commerce, had a honey
of an idea — and Throcky was trying
to queer it.

Fibber, looking authoritative, sat
on the platform at the Chamber of
Commerce meeting and wielded
the gavel, but Gildersleeve was try-
ing to do all the talking. It never
pleased Fibber to listen to some-
body else, and Gildersleeve should
have known it.

"Fellow members," Gildersleeve
was saying, "as you all know, this
city owns a piece of useless prop-

erty, laughingly known as the
Wistful Vista Flying Field. As you
also know, Mayor Duncan has asked
the Chamber's advice as to how to
dispose of this property which the
city has never been able to turn
over, even with a plow." He
smoothed his black moustache and
laughed happily at his own wit-
ticism. "Now, I have a friend who
is offering the city a two thousand
dollar profit on its investment, and
I hereby move that we urge the city
to accept the offer."

Mrs. Uppington seconded the
motion. Mrs. Uppington was al-
ways seconding Gildersleeve's mo-
tions.

"Now, listen here!" Fibber's
square face, with its high forehead
where the sandy hair was beginning
to give up the struggle, was red
with impatience. "We won't do
anything of the kind. Everyone
knows the Horton Airplane Com-
pany is going to build their new
factory in this vicinity. The choice
is between us and Ironton, across
the river. We gotta do everything
in our power to get Horton to build
in our flying field!"

"Pipe dream," Gildersleeve
sneered. "Horton has already de-
cided to build in Ironton. I learned
that from an unimpeachable
source."

Molly and Fibber were
the first to recognize
the famous visitors
who came flying down.

Charlie and Edgar were
their way to Pine-

hurst — but they landed
plump in Wistful Vista.

"Unimpeachable applesource!"
Fibber snapped, and took a letter
from his pocket. "Get a load of
this, Throcky, old boy. It's from
the Horton Airplane Company and
it says, 'My dear Mr. McGee — We
think you should be made cogni-
zant— ' Get that, folks, they want
me to be made cognizant."

Molly McGee, sitting in the audi-
torium, straightened her shoulders
pridefully. "And I think he'd make
a very good one, too," she said to
the woman beside her.

Fibber went on. " ' — cognizant
that we categorically repudiate any
implication of partiality in deter-
mining the site for our prospective
expansion. Exhaustive technological
investigation predisposes us pre-
ponderantly toward your neighbor-
ing municipality. But we might
conjecturally contemplate an al-
ternative situation in the immedi-
ate proximity. Cordially, Hilary
Horton.' What do you say to that?"
he inquired triumphantly.

"Extremely noncommital and
nebulous," Mrs. Uppington said.

"You're darn right it is!" Fibber
said even more triumphantly. "And
I say we should hold on to that field
and go after Horton!"

Gildersleeve's voice cut through
an excited buzz of comment run-
ning through the hall. "I think my
opinion on real estate is worth a
little more than yours, McGee."

"Oh yeah?" Fibber shouted.
"What about that property you ad-

vised me to buy two years ago?"

"I told you that was a good in-
vestment for a long pull."

"Sure," Fibber said bitterly. "A
long pull in a rowboat! I asked the
bank what that hunk of swamp was
worth and they offered me six cents
a gallon!"

"That's beside the point," Gilder-
sleeve said. "I demand that you
put this matter to a vote."

Molly McGee, comfortable and
solid in her flowered print dress,
stood up. "I move," she said loudly,
"that the meeting be adjourned."

"Do I hear a second?" Fibber
asked.

Someone sneezed.

"Thanks, Mr. Sinus," Fibber
nodded. He rapped on the table.
"The meeting stands adjourned."

Gildersleeve caught up with the
McGees as they tried to escape
from the hall. He was blusteringly
angry. "You can't get away with
this, McGee!" he yelled. "You're
railroading this thing through!"

Fibber's gray eyes twinkled. Now
that he carried his point, he was his
usual vague, mild self again. "I'm
surprised you could follow it, you
big caboose," he said. "Besides and
furthermore, Throcky, I dunno what

Flctlonhed from the RKO Radio Picture.
"Look Who's Laughing," based upon the
screen play by James V. Kern, produced
and directed by Alan Dwan, with a cast
starring Fibber McGee and Molly, Edgar
Bergen, Charlie McCarthy, Lucille Ball.

your angle is, but that offer you
got from a friend is a fake. It
must be a fake — you ain't got a
friend."

"Why, you anemic little anthro-
pological aberration! You bump-
tious little bot-fly, I could smack
you down with a wet noodle!"

Fibber turned to Molly. "You
think he could?"

After consideration,- Molly said,
"No."

"I don't either," Fibber decided.
"I ain't scared of you, Gildersleeve,
and I'm gonna protect the citizens
of Wistful Vista. I'm gonna see that
Horton sees our site before he set-
tles on any other site he sees."

It was about this time that Ed-
gar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy
dropped out of the sky.

They hadn't meant to come to
Wistful Vista at all. They had done
their last broadcast, and were on
their vacation, which they'd
planned to spend in Pinehurst, but
Edgar was piloting his own plane
and somehow he couldn't seem to
find Pinehurst. But, as Charlie told
him, he was always absent-minded.
"You'd lose me," Charlie leered, "if
I didn't make a living for you."

Anyway, just before they ran out
of gas they landed plump on the
Wistful Vista Flying Field. Fibber
and the rest of the Chamber of
Commerce had rushed out to the
field upon sighting the plane, think-
ing maybe Mrs. Roosevelt was drop-
ping in for a visit; and it was

., M

You will be. when you read this gay story of Wistful
Vista, where Fibber McGee and Molly meet Edgar Bergen gg
and Charlie McCarthy and get involved with airplanes,
electric washing machines, romance, and high finance

"Fellow members," Gildersleeve
was saying, "as you all know, this
city owns a piece of useless prop-

Mrs. Uppington seconded the
motion. Mrs. Uppington was al-
ways seconding Gildersleeve's mo-
tions.

"Pipe dream," Gildersleeve
sneered. "Horton has already de-
cided to build in Ironton. I learned
that from an unimpeachable
source."

Molly and Fibber were
the first to recognize
the famous visitors
who came flying down.

Charlie and Edgar were
on their way to Pine-
hurst — but they landed
plump in Wistful Vista.

Molly McGee, sitting in the audi-
torium, straightened her shoulders
pridefully. "And I think he'd make
a very good one, too," she said to
the woman beside her.

Fibber went on. " ' — cognizant
that we categorically repudiate any
implication of partiality in deter-
mining the site for our prospective
expansion. Exhaustive technological
. investigation predisposes us pre-
ponderantly toward your neighbor-
ing municipality. But we might
conjecturally contemplate an al-
ternative situation in the immedi-
ate proximity. Cordially, Hilary
Horton.' What do you say to that?"
he inquired triumphantly.

"Extremely noncommital and
nebulous," Mrs. Uppington said.

"You're darn right it is!" Fibber
said even more triumphantly. "And
I say we should hold on to that field
and go after Horton!"

Gildersleeve's voice cut through
an excited buzz of comment run-
ning through the hall. "I think my
I opinion on real estate is worth a
"We more than yours, McGee."
"w*?n yeah?" Fibber shouted,
"hat about that property you ad-

vised me to buy two years ago?"

"I told you that was a good in-
vestment for a long pull."

"Sure," Fibber said bitterly. "A
long pull in a rowboat! I asked the
bank what that hunk of swamp was
worth and they offered me six cents
a gallon!"

"That's beside the point," Gilder-
sleeve said. "I demand that you
put this matter to a vote."

Molly McGee, comfortable and
solid in her flowered print dress,
stood up. "I move," she said loudly,
"that the meeting be adjourned."

"Do I hear a second?" Fibber
asked.

Someone sneezed.

"Thanks, Mr. Sinus," Fibber
nodded. He rapped on the table.
"The meeting stands adjourned."

Gildersleeve caught up with the
McGees as they tried to escape
from the hall. He was blusteringly
angry. "You can't get away with
this, McGee!" he yelled. "You're
railroading this thing through!"

Fletlaahed from ♦*• MO Radio Plcturo.
"Look Who't Laughing." boted upon «•
screen play by Jamn V. Km. produced
and dlnctad by Alan Dwan.wlth a i eoir
starring Fibber McGe. and Molly Edgar
Berg.n, Charlla McCarthy. Lacllla tall.

your angle is, but that offer you
got from a friend is a fake. It
must be a fake — you ain't got a
friend."

"Why, you anemic little anthro-
pological aberration! You bump-
tious little bot-fly, I could smack
you down with a wet noodle!"

Fibber turned to Molly. "You
think he could?"

After consideration,- Molly said,
"No."

It was about this time that Ed-
gar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy
dropped out of the sky.

Anyway, just before they ran out
of gas they landed plump on the
Wistful Vista Flying Field. Fibber
and the rest of the Chamber of
Commerce had rushed out to the
field upon sighting the plane, think-
ing maybe Mrs, Roosevelt was drop-
ping in for a visit; and it was

Molly who first recognized Charlie
McCarthy and was able to invite the
new arrivals to her home before
her social rival, Mrs. Uppington,
had realized they were celebrities.
Fibber and Molly's house was like
its owners — middle aged, friendly,
and unpretentious. Like Fibber, it
was always a bit untidy, although
Molly did her best to keep it neat.
A hall closet was so crammed with
discarded furniture, clothes, crock-
ery and tennis rackets that it over-
flowed every time the door was
opened. When this happened, Fib-
ber would mumble, "Got to clean
that closet out one of these days" —

mine," Edgar said casually. "He'd
come and look over your field per-
sonally if I asked him to."

Fibber jumped up. "He would!
Well, gee — golly, Mr. Bergen, if you
only would—"

"Would this factory mean so
much to your community?" Edgar
asked.

"Would it! Why, look at the jobs
it would make, the people it would
bring to town, the business it would
assimilate!"

"But what would you get out
of it?"

"Who, me?" Fibber asked. "Not
a darn thing. I want it for the good

gen toward the kitchen, "when I
was in charge of the Precision Di-
vision of the Biggs Thrasher and
Belting Company. 'Biggs' Tinker
McGee' I was knowed as in them
days. Biggs' Tinker McGee! The
brawny and brainy Bonaparte of
benzine-buggy blacksmiths! Busy
as a beaver and bright as a beacon
at bolting bumper brackets on bus
bodies. Boosted as the best boss in
the business at boring bronze bear-
ings in boat boilers. Bringing back
the bacon as the boss of the brake-
band, bumblebee of the brace and
bit, and big bullfrog of the brass
bicycle bell bongers. A breezy,

Once Julie Patterson realized how
Fibber was being swindled, it didn't
take her long to swing into action.

but he never did. Instead, he spent
his time making labor-saving gad-
gets, usually electric, of his own
invention. These always added to
Molly's work instead of cutting it
down, and usually blew every fuse
in the house.

Edgar Bergen liked the McGees
and their home at once, and after an
excellent dinner he listened sympa-
thetically while Fibber told the sad
story of his efforts to bring the
Horton Airplane factory to Wistful
Vista.

"But Horton's an old friend of

of the city. I love this town and the
folks who live here. They're a fine,
loyal, intelligent bunch of people.
And if I put this thing over and the
ungrateful dumbbells don't re-elect
me President of the Chamber of
Commerce, I sometimes wonder
why I go to all this trouble."

Edgar grinned and started to an-
swer, but Molly came out of the
kitchen with the news that some-
thing was wrong with Fibber's new-
est invention, the dishwasher.

"I started inventing years ago,"
Fibber said, strutting ahead of Ber-

brilliant bozo for beginning boys to
copy — But just take a look at our
dishwashing jalopy."

It was a big box, painted white.
McGee waved a proprietary hand,
and turned the switch. The ma-
chine started with a groan, but rap-
idly accelerated its speed until it was
trembling and leaping on its foun-
dation. The lid flew off, and a plate
whistled out of the box, past Mc-
Gee's ear.

"Why didn't you tell me it was
loaded?" he screamed reproach-
fully. (Continued on page 60)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIBHOR

Bewitching Gladys Swarthout, whose enchanting contralto voice carried her
to stardom in the Metropolitan Opera Company, has returned to the air on
a regular weekly program. Hear her every Sunday afternoon on CBS, sharing
musical honors with Deems Taylor, baritone Ross Graham and Al Goodman's
orchestra. Between broadcasts, Gladys is Mrs. Frank Chapman, happy wife.

NOVEMBER, 1941

WE'RE ALL zAm ERIC ANS

(ALL TRUE BLUE)

Here — free to all Radio Mirror readers — is the patriotic song hit that
makes your heart beat to a marching rhythm every time Kate
Smith sings it on her Friday evening variety shows on CBS

-UK •

March tempo

Words and Music by
JAMES T. MANGAN

f!FEF

US*

z?±

We're

Here

all
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come

th'A

mer - i - cans!,
mer - i - cans,
mer - i - cans!.

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L—J-Jll-fi — J--I — I— p

We're proud to bear the name,_

De ceived — by no ones tricks,.

A march of age and youth,

Our
We'll
We'll

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talk

fight.

lion's fath
and think
to keep

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act to

lib - er

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flag,
day ..

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SlEF

ppi

And

the

the
pre-

tfPTT

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Performance rights controlled by Broadcast Music Inc.

Performance rights controlled
by Broadcast Music Inc.fBMl)

International Copyright Secured

Mad* in U. S. A .

wav

lib
guard

ing brave - ly ov - er - head,

er - ty and hap - pi - ness _

and hon - or and pro - tect, .

The

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tells

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all
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ffffifrft:

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER

OE MALLABY said to Hallam
Ford, who was by all odds his favor-
ite director, "What do you think of
Gerry Gateson's new script?"

Hallam Ford riffled through the
sheaf of typed pages. "I think it's
a wow!" he answered. "It should
play like a million dollars."

Joe said, "Gerry Gateson's a good
writer ... Hal, do you think the
client will go for 'Love Story'?"

"If the client doesn't, he's a goon,"
said Hallam. Once more his nervous
hands flicked back page after page.
"Gateson can write rings around
the rest of the boys."

"You've taken a load off my
mind," said Joe, fervently. "In this
agency game a fellow gets so he
doesn't trust his own judgment.
Somehow I thought you didn't like
the script."

"Why in the name of common
sense," queried Hallam, "should you
think that?"

"Your face," said Joe. "It's a
study in gloom. In fact, Hal, you
look as sour as all get out. What's
biting you?"

Hallam Ford sighed. "Donnie's
got the sniffles," he told Joe, "and
naturally I'm worried. My mind's
been running in circles all after-
noon. Donnie's such an awfully
delicate youngster — the least little
thing shoots up his temperature. His
mother died when he was born,
you know."

"Yeah, I know," nodded Joe
Mallaby. His gaze had grown sym-
pathetic from behind owlish tortoise
shell-rimmed glasses. "How old is
Donnie, anyway?"

Hallam told him briefly— "Five,"

RADIO DIRECTOR

His mind wasn't on the broadcast, it was on a darkened
room and a little boy who lay listlessly in bed ... If
only Donnie had a mother! But not Millicent, the party
girl, the shallow sophisticate— and the woman he loved

and Joe smiled.

"I wouldn't get in a dither about
a five-year-old," he replied. "Don-
nie's probably growing too fast — or
something. Give him time and he'll
be a regular prize fighter."

"I hope so," replied Hallam, but
his voice lacked conviction. "Of
course, Donnie'd be a heap healthier
if we had a suburban house — or
even a sunny flat near the park. A
hotel is no place for a kid, but it
seems the best proposition, with me
on the job day and night — " He
broke off. "Oh, what the devil,
Joe! You're not interested in my
troubles. . . . Let's get on with the
script."

"Okay," agreed Joe briefly, but
his voice was crowded with under-
standing, "let's."

Hallam drummed on the arm of
his chair with tense fingers. "We
have four main characters," he
mused, "the others are background.
There's the older sister — she's the
real leading lady — and there's the
glamour girl. Lord, how I hate the
word glamour! And then there's
the leading man and the character
woman."

"The whole show depends on the
older sister," Joe threw in, "the rest
can go hang. At least, that's my
slant."

"Mine, too," nodded Hallam.

Joe went on, embroidering his
theme. "I fancy you'll agree with
me, Ford. We usually see eye to
eye when it comes to casting — " he
hesitated. "D'you know, I think
Millicent Barry should play the
older sister!"

Hallam laughed, but there was an

entire lack of mirth in his laughter.
"Now, Joe," he protested, "we've
less than a week to get 'Love Story'
on the air!"

"So what?" queried Joe.

Hallam explained patiently. "Mil-
licent's always on the go," he said.
"You can't pin her down. She's in-
variably late for rehearsals. She's
forever on her way to or from some
shindig. I wouldn't care to use her
on a rush job."

Joe argued stubbornly. "With
la Barry the script is sure fire, and
without her — " He paused and
Hallam picked up the conversational
thread.

"Millicent's a fine actress," he
said, "I'll grant you that. She's got
what it takes, even though she
is — shallow."

Once more Joe fixed his owlish
regard on the man who sat opposite
him. "You and Millie had a fight?"
he questioned. "Last spring I kind
of thought you had a yen for the
girl—"

Hallam replied carefully. "Milli-
cent is very attractive, but she
hasn't time for a mere director — I
found that out. . . . She's like one
of those bright insects that you see
on streams in the country. She goes
skittering over the surface — she
never gets below, where there's any
depth."

Joe chuckled and said, "Don't be
caustic, my boy. I take it back
about the yen. You only have to
direct the girl — you don't have to
marry her."

There was a moment of silence —
silence as thick and enveloping as
wood smoke — and then Hallam said,

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

His arms encircled her,
and Millie stood up to
offer him lips that were
still salty with tears.

Illustrations
by Marshall Fronts

"I'm a sap to let my feelings run
away with me. Millicent Barry will
be swell in the part — I'll put in a
call for her, at once. Incidentally,
Joe, I'll start casting tonight in my
office at the Radio Mart. At eight
o'clock or thereabouts. Want to
drop in?"

Joe shook his head. "Can't do,"
he said. "I've other fish to fry. But
if you'd care to eat dinner with me
before you go over to the Mart, we
can gab about this and that."

Hallam shook his head. "No, Joe,"
he said, "not tonight. I want to look
in on Donnie before I start the
grind, and I'll stay with him as long
as possible — even if I have to miss
dinner."

AS he sat in his office, sorting
through the multigraphed
copies of "Love Story," checking
over his list of names and telephone
numbers, Hallam Ford had the feel-
ing of a man who stares at a parade
through dark glasses. Everything
was a little blurred and uncertain
before him. Gateson's script was
vague, and so were the people who
would so soon make it come to life.
His mind was in a hotel room — a
stupid, over-furnished, average
hotel room — with a little boy who
lay listlessly in a veneered mahog-
any bed. Hallam's hand, resting
quietly on the cool glass top of his
desk, could still feel the dry touch
of small, hot fingers.

"Perhaps," he thought, as he read
a speech without being aware of the
words, "I should have sent for the
doctor or a nurse. Maybe it's more
than a cold."

More than a cold . . . The thought
sent ripples of goose flesh up and
down the column of Hallam Ford's
spine. Donnie was so little, so frail.
A real spell of sickness could so
easily erase his young eagerness.
... If only Donnie had a mother.
A mother would supply not only
affection — she'd arrange for a home
and naps and balanced play and all
the calories that a growing child

NOVEMBER, 1941

"Why am I so rude to Millie?" Hal questioned savagely of his heart.
"Why does the very sight of her make me forget that I'm— a gentleman?"

needed. How could a man alone,
living in a hotel suite, give a small
boy the proper attention?

"When he's old enough," Hallam
told himself, "I'll send Donnie to a
boarding school." But the" idea,
practical though it was, cut into his
soul with the rasping pain of a rusty
knife. Donnie was all he had — all.
Donnie was a part of his brief, sweet
marriage, and a part of his lost ro-
mance, and the whole of his future.

On sudden impulse Hallam
reached for the telephone and pulled
it toward him. He dialed the num-
ber of his hotel and waited impa-
tiently until the operator's familiar
voice came over the wire.

"Bertha," he said, "give me the
maid on my floor, will you?" and at
her "Sure, Mr. Ford — " he held his
breath in actual discomfort. When
at long last the good natured Irish
maid took up the receiver, he found
that his palms were damp with
perspiration.

"As I left to come down to the
office," he said almost sharply, "I
asked you to drop in and see Donnie
every ten or fifteen minutes. You
haven't forgotten, have you?" He
listened for a moment and then —
"You say he's asleep, now, but that
his face is sort of flushed, eh? Okay,
Maggie, I'll be home as soon as pos-
sible. And don't forget to keep
dropping in."

HALLAM FORD hung up the re-
ceiver and slumped back in his
chair, and stared vacantly through
the wide, curtainless window. Al-
most level with his eyes, the en-
chanted skyline of the city laughed
at him and winked at him and
mocked him.

"My Lord," he said aloud, "I won-
der if Donnie's really going to be
sick? I wonder what a flushed face
means? That fool of a Maggie — "

"What fool of a Maggie?" queried
a voice from the door. It was a cool
voice — cool and low and slightly
husky. "Have you started talking to
yourself, Hal? Isn't talking to one-
self a sign of insanity or senility or
something?"

Hallam Ford jumped — actually
jumped — and his eyes, focusing ac-
curately for the first time since he
had left Donnie, fastened themselves
upon the girl in the doorway. She
was well worth looking at, that girl.
She might have stepped from the
pages of a next month's fashion
magazine. Her dark, shiny hair was
dressed away from her ears and high
on her head, in the mode of to-

morrow. Her sleek, hipless body
was sheathed in a white satin dinner
gown that broke into icy blue rip-
ples at the full hemline. The dress
stopped just below her armpits and
it hadn't any shoulder straps.

"Good grief," Hallam heard him-
self asking, "how do you keep it on?"

Millicent Barry stepped into the
room. She murmured, "A trick —
one of my best." She added,
"How're things?"

Hallam told her, "About as
usual ..." And then, after a pause,
"I take it you're going somewhere?"

Millicent crossed the room and
seated herself on the corner of his
desk. "I'm on my way to a party,"
she said.

Hallam groaned. "I knew it," he
told her. "You always are."

With eyes not quite as cool as her
voice, Millicent stared at a picture
that decorated the cream tinted wall
in back of Hallam. Her unswerving
regard disconcerted the man.

"Well," she said finally, "why
shouldn't I go to parties? I'm a party
girl, aren't I? You told me so, didn't
you?"

Hallam had told her just that —
there was no denying it. He changed
the subject hastily.

"Did you come all the way down
here -without a coat, Millie?" he
inquired.

Millicent Barry chuckled — her
chuckle was deep and throaty and
exciting. It registered awfully well
on the air.

"I left my coat in the outer office,"
she told Hallam. "I wanted to give
you a thrill."

"Well, you did," Hallam told her.
All at once he was desperately,
achingly weary. "Now suppose you
go back to the outer office and put
on the coat and beat it."

"Beat it?" echoed Millicent. She
reached forward languidly and
rumpled the thick, slightly graying
hair which swept back from Hal-
lam's suddenly creased forehead.

"Why, I only just got here," she
cooed. "And, oddly enough, you
sent for me. Don't tell me you're
going to break down and give me
a job, Hal, after all these years?"
"I was thinking of it," Hallam
said guardedly.

"Is everyone else out of town?"
jeered Millicent. "You've been neg-
lecting me shamefully, darling, for
the last century or so. What's it
all about?"

Hallam felt hot anger surge over
him. Talking with Millicent invari-
ably had that effect' upon him — he

didn't exactly know why. He said —
"You're wrong, Millie. . Even your
name is wrong. Millicent's as sweet
and old-fashioned and ssfne . as a
country garden. And you're as
sophisticated and flippant — " He
found himself floundering, much to
his own annoyance, for a suitable
simile.

Millicent Barry chuckled again.

She was appallingly good-humored.

"Now let me think," she mused.

"What is insufferably sophisticated

and flippant?"

HALLAM told her, "You are!" and
knew that the retort was a child-
ish one. "And you haven't any
right, either," he added, "to say that
I've been neglecting you. The last
three times I asked you for lunch-
eon—" "

Millicent murmured, "I didn't
mean socially, my pet."

Hallam was completely let down.
"It's just that I can't depend on
you," he growled. "Nobody can!"

"Ah, now, Hal," protested Milli-
cent, "you're in a frightful mood.
You know I'm dependable. I've
never been late for a date, yet — if
it was hot. . . . You mustn't glare
at me, Hal — " her voice grew mock-
ing— "don't you love me any more?"

Hallam Ford pushed back his
chair. He shrugged away from Milli-
cent Barry's outstretched hand and
walked toward the window and
stood staring down into the night.

"I was only interested in you —
as an actress," he said at last. "If
you worked at your job, you'd be
amazing. ... I never did — love you."

"So you never loved me," Milli--
cent cut in. "Well, big boy — "

Hallam grated, "Don't call me big
boy! Millie, I'm in no mood for you,
this evening. . . . Run along to your
party; go sell your darned violets."

Millicent reached into her evening
bag for a slim cigarette case. She
snapped it open and selected a ciga-
rette with exquisite care.

"I still insist," she said finally,
"that you sent for me — ostensibly to
give me a part in a show. They tell
me outside that you're casting for
a Gateson number. I hope it's the
truth — he can write."

"I'm sure," growled Hallam, "that
Gerald Gateson would be pleased to
hear you say so."

Millicent went on reflectively. "I
met Gerry Gateson, once, with a
beautiful blonde creature, in green.
It was at a studio brawl."

Hallam said, "It would have been
at some sort of a brawl — "

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

Millicent Barry swung herself
down from the desk and walked
over to the window to stand beside
Hallam. Her gaze was troubled, but
her arm — bare and warm and fra-
grant— was nonchalant as she linked
it through his.

"What's the matter, Hal?" she
queried. "Don't you feel well?"

"I'm well enough," Hallam told
her, "but my little boy isn't. Don-
nie's got a cold and he's running a
temperature."

Millicent said softly, "That's so —

you have a kid. You spoke of him

— a couple of times ... I remember."

"Nice of you," muttered Hallam,

"to remember."

Millicent went on. "I remember
quite a lot," she said. "I wanted to
meet your kid ... In fact, I wanted
to take him to a May Pole dance or
to the movies — or was the circus in
town?"

Hallam said, "There was a circus
— and circuses are always full of
whooping cough and measles and
things. I didn't dare send Donnie
off with an irresponsible — "

"In other words, with me!"
nodded Millicent. "Yes, I got that,
at the time." She added after an
infinitesimal pause, "Where have
you left the youngster? Is he in a
hospital?"

"No," Hallam told her, "he isn't.
He only has a runny nose, so far. At
this moment, Donnie's in a gloomy
hotel room, with a floor maid look-
ing in on him every ten minutes.
I hope she'll have enough sense to
send for me — if he grows worse."
"I hope so," echoed Millicent. She
sighed and asked irrelevantly, "Got
a match?" and Hallam snapped,
"No!" and she laughed and told him,
"Then I won't smoke for a while."
With the flip of her slim wrist she
tossed the unlit cigarette out of the
window and Hallam watched the
white flicker of it sweeping down
through the darkness, like a little
lost dream.

"I don't think," said Millicent
slowly — her eyes also following the
descent of the white particle —
"that you should leave a sick kid
to the tender mercies of a maid in
a hotel. I don't, Hal— really."

"I suppose," grated Hallam, "that
you've a better idea?"

"Oh, no," answered Millicent. "I
was merely making a remark, in
passing. ... It just happens that I
like kids."

Somehow Hallam Ford felt that
he must defend himself. "You like
kids!" he mocked. "Why, you

NOVEMBEH, 1941

Hal, glued to the spot, thought Millie had never before been
so glorious. Donnie's head was snuggling against her shoulder.

wouldn't touch a youngster with a
ten-foot pole — unless it were a gag."

Millicent withdrew her arm from
Hallam's. He felt strangely deserted
and forlorn.

"My word, Hal," she said, "you
are in a filthy mood! Maybe I had
better leave — while the going's
good. Give me a copy of the script
and I'll tuck it into my reticule and

be on my way."

Hallam told her, "I don't think I
want to give you a copy of the
script, Millie. The part I had in
mind for you — well, I'm no longer
sure that it's down your street. It's
about a girl who has to be gentle
and womanly and understanding."

"I take it I'm none of those
things?" (Continued on page 48)

Delicious and nourishing, and decorative
too, is this open Banana Butterscotch Pie.

■ •

BAKING and roasting have al-
ways played such an important
part in our national tradition of
home making that it seems par-
ticularly important, now when we
are so keenly aware of our Amer-
ican way of life, to emphasize the
advantages of oven cooking. There
is something in the very words
"oven prepared" which brings up
visions of cozy kitchens and happy,
contented family life and on the
practical side oven cooking is an
economy of both time and fuel since
two or three dishes may be pre-
pared at one time. During the sum-
mer, when we were interested
primarily in cooling foods and cool
kitchens I've been filing in the back
of my mind new oven recipes for
you to try later on and now, as
the Walrus said, "The time has
come" — so here are the recipes:

Old Favorite in a New Role

A favorite breakfast cereal,
Cream of Wheat, now makes its
appearance in a casserole dish, an
excellent fix-it-in-a-hurry selec-
tion for lunch or supper.

Wz cups cooked Cream of Wheat
2 cups diced cooked ham
1 cup condensed cream of mushroom
soup
% cup water

1 tbl. minced onion

V2 cup grated American cheese
Vfe tsp. salt
V3 tsp. pepper

2 tbls. butter or margarine
% tsp. marjoram

Combine all ingredients and turn
into buttered casserole. Bake at
400 degrees F. for 30 minutes.

Oyster pie, a shrimp casserole
which utilizes leftovers and can be
whipped up in no time, ham cas-
serole and two desserts guaranteed
to make the family ask for more.

Before we get into the recipes,
though, there are a few points I'd
like to remind you of which will
ensure your getting the very best
value out of your oven. Point num-
ber one is temperature. Be sure to
maintain oven heat at the tem-
perature called for in the recipe. If
the exact degree isn't mentioned,
remember that a slow oven means
250 to 350 degrees F.; moderate,
350 to 400; hot 400 to 450, and
very hot 450 to 500. If your oven
isn't equipped with automatic heat
control, a small oven thermometer
will be a worth-while investment,
and you will of course, cook at the
same time only dishes calling for
the same cooking temperature. Two
other points to keep in mind are
never to let two pans touch during
cooking, for the food is likely to
over-cook at the point where they
touch, and to set such delicacies as
baked custards and souffles in a pan
of water during baking so that
they will not burn on the bottom
before they are cooked through on
top.

And now for our recipes.

Oyster Pie

1 qt. oysters and liquor

2 tbls. cornstarch
Vz cup cold water

3 tbls. melted butter or margarine
1 tbl. lemon juice

1 tsp. salt
Vs tsp. red pepper
Biscuit dough

Blend cornstarch and water into
smooth paste, add to oysters with

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR

if you're having a roast for dinner, prepare
this Brazil Nut Coffee Cake at the same time.

Another sea food treat is Shrimp Casser-
ole which utilizes left over vegetables.

melted butter, lemon juice and sea-
sonings then mix well and turn
into buttered casserole. Top with
small biscuits and bake at 400 de-
grees F., about 50 minutes. Cup
cakes to be served warm with
whipped cream or chocolate sauce
may be baked at the same time.

Shrimp Casserole

2 tbls. butter or margarine
2 tbls. flour
\Yz cups milk
Yz tsp. salt

Dash cayenne
1 cup grated cheese
1 No. 1 can shrimp
1 cup cooked rice or half rice and half

cooked peas or carrots
1 cup buttered crumbs

Make white sauce, by melting
butter, stirring in flour and adding
milk, then cooking slowly until
thickened. Add seasoning and
grated cheese and stir until cheese
melts. Add rice (or rice and vege-
tables) and shrimp which have
been flaked, reserving a few whole
shrimp to garnish top. Turn mix-
ture into buttered casserole, place
whole shrimp on top, cover with
buttered crumbs and bake at 375
degrees 25 to 30 minutes. Tomatoes
may be baked at the same time
and are delicious served with the
shrimp casserole.

Ham Casserole

1 slice ham, 1% to 2 inches thick

2 tbls. prepared mustard

2 tbls. tart jelly

1 tbl. minced onion
Y\ tsp. ground cloves (optional)
Y\ tsp. sage
Ya tsp. pepper

1 bay leaf

3 tbls. brown sugar
Milk

Freshen ham by covering with
water, bringing to boil and cooking

NOVEMBER, 1941

for 3 to 5 minutes, depending on
thickness. Remove from boiling
water, place in buttered casserole.
Mix together mustard, jelly, onion
and dry ingredients and spread
evenly on ham. Cover with milk
and cook in 350 degree oven until
tender (1 to W\ hr. depending on
thickness), adding more milk if
original quantity cooks away. The
milk will curdle during the cooking
but this will not affect the flavor.
Serve with baked sweet potatoes.
Apples or Brown Betty may be
baked at the same temperature.

Banana Butterscotch Pie

% cup brown sugar (packed firm)
5 tbls. flour
Yz tsp. salt

BY KATE SMITH

Radio Mirror's Food Counselor

Listen to Kate Smith's dally talks at
noon, and her Friday night show, both
on CBS. sponsored by General Foods.

2 cups milk
2 egg yolks

2 tbls. butter or margarine
Yz tsp. vanilla extract

3 ripe bananas

1 baked 9-inch pie shell

In top of double boiler, mix to-
gether sugar, flour and salt. Add
milk gradually and blend together.
Cook, stirring constantly, over rap-
idly boiling water and when well-
thickened — and not before — note
time and cook for 10 minutes more,
stirring occasionally. Beat egg yolks
and beat into them a little of the
hot mixture; add egg mixture to
remaining hot mixture, beating
briskly, and cook together for 1
minute more. Remove from heat
and add butter and vanilla. Cool.
Arrange alternate layers of sliced
bananas and filling in baked cooled
pie shell, the top layer being a
garnish of banana slices as illus-
trated. The pie shell may be baked
during the first high-temperature
cooking of a roast. ,

Brazil Nut Coffee Cake

2 cups sifted flour

2 tsps. baking powder
Yz tsp. salt

Yz cup sugar

3 tbls. melted butter or margarine
1 egg

1 cup milk

1 cup chopped Brazil nuts

Measure and sift together flour,
baking powder, sugar and salt. Beat
egg well, beat in milk and beat into
dry ingredients, together with
melted butter. Add Brazil nuts
which have been rolled lightly in
flour. Bake in well-buttered loaf
or ring pan and bake at 350 degrees
F. until baked through (about 45
minutes). This may be baked with
a roast after the high temperature
has been reduced.

Superman

SUPERMAN stood in the prow of
the sturdy little vessel, the Juanita,
and watched the brilliant blue of
the Caribbean Sea as it gleamed
brightly under the setting sun. He
wondered about this strange journey
on which he had embarked — won-
dered where this latest assignment he
had been given as Clark Kent, star
reporter of the Daily Planet, would
lead him. But he was not alone for
long. He turned as he heard foot-
steps on the deck and smiled at the
small, silver-bearded old man who
joined him.

"Hello, Professor Thorpe — thought
I'd enjoy the scenery for a while."

"Good evening, Kent." The pro-
fessor addressed Superman by the
only name he knew.

Superman's tone suddenly became
serious.

"Professor, I'm glad you came out.
I've been meaning to talk to you. I
know this voyage must have been
made for some reason of which I
know nothing. Professor, don't you
think you can trust me enough to tell
me the whole story — now?"

"Yes, Kent, I think I can. When my
old friend and your editor, Perry
White, told me about you he said that
you could be trusted completely. I
have waited only till we were safely
on the way before telling you.

"You know, of course, that the out-
ward purpose of our trip is to test my
new type of bathysphere — my deep-
sea diving bell. You know, too, that
it can go deeper into the ocean than
any man has gone before and lived.
And it is equipped with a system of
safety doors and divers can walk right
out on the bed of the ocean.

"You know all that — but you don't
know why we're here. Tomorrow
morning we will have reached the
little-known spot called Octopus Bay.
There — 300 feet down — lie two million
dollars in gold!"

Superman whistled involuntarily.
"But professor — how do you know?"

Thorpe's tone was calm.

"Thirty years ago, when I was div-
ing for tropical fish, I saw the hull of
a ship beneath me. But then it was
impossible to go any deeper. I re-
turned to the surface and began to
search for some clue to the identity
of the boat. Finally, after years of
research, I found it. In the year 1786,
the Spanish Galleon LaQuinta sank.
She carried two million in gold — and
not one penny was ever recovered!

"Kent, I want that money for only
one purpose — to build a laboratory —
the greatest scientific institution ever
created. A place where scientists can
work for mankind unworried by any
thought of finances."

The ship's motors pulsed steadily
through the night. On and on, at a
steady ten knots, the Juanita pushed
toward its destination. The bright
morning sun beat down and cut
through the last lingering bits of sea-
mist as the treasure party finally
reached their goal.

As Superman came on deck, the
motors gave one last, lazy turn and
then the only motion was the soft,

"Kent — the air is foul — no oxy-
gen— we're trapped — I — " But he
qol lapsed before he could utter
another word. Stripping off his
clothes, Superman wasted no time.

He reached the great sea-beast and
with untold strength hit at his in-
human enemy. . . . Superman held the
ship against the fury of the hurri-
cane until it was firmly anchored.

^yj

Jj^

^^^kv /Tp^y ~ ^A

%M^^

in Radio

gentle lapping of the water against
the ship's side. In a few minutes
the bathysphere was ready to be
launched.

Thorpe and his diver assistant, Bill
Gleason, were the first to enter as the
steel outer door was swung open.
Superman followed and the door was
slammed shut behind him.

Down — down through the eternal
darkness — farther than any man had
ever gone before. One hundred feet —
two hundred — three hundred — down.

Gently, the huge bell settled on the
bottom. In his specially-designed div-
ing suit, Gleason emerged like some
ghostly figure from the bathysphere
in search of the age-old Spanish ship.
He had walked into the safety cham-
ber with its inner and outer door,
both strong enough to withstand tre-
mendous pressure. When the outer
door was opened by Gleason, the sea
waters rushed in. A green light
flashed on the control board in the
other room occupied by the professor
and Superman. At the signal, Thorpe
pressed a button and, immediately,
compressed air forced the water out
of the chamber and shut the outer
door at the same time.

The minutes ticked slowly by. Sud-
denly, the professor coughed — softly,
at first. Then great hacking sounds
as if he were gasping for breath.
Superman, sensing that something
was wrong, ran quickly to the instru-
ment panel. The needle in the oxygen
gauge was swinging wildly to the
side marked in red. Painfully Thorpe
gasped :

"Kent — the air is foul — no oxygen
— call Maddox — we're trapped — I — "

But he collapsed before he could
utter another word. Superman
reached the phone and clicked it up
and down, up and down. No answer.
The lines had been fouled! Steadily,
the air became hot and choking. Even
Superman found it difficult to breathe.
Grim tragedy was reaching its cold
tentacles into the dark water at the
bottom of Octopus Bay. But Super-
man wasted no time. Stripping off
the clothes of Clark Kent, he pressed
the button that released the com-
pressed air and kept the outer cham-
ber clear of water. Then, he went
through first one door and then the
other.

The pressure against his body on
the sea bed was tremendous. It would
have instantly crushed an ordinary
man. But Superman cleaved the
water like the steel-sharp blade of a
knife, easily and smoothly. In a mo-
ment, his keen eyes located the air-
lines and, swiftly, found the trouble.
A giant octopus had wrapped its huge
tentacles tightly around the bathy-
sphere's lifeline!

Shooting upward, he reached the
great sea-beast. Pulling until the
muscles rippled on his broad back,
Superman loosened them. But still
the octopus clung. Then it whirled
with lightning speed and fastened its
other tentacles around its tormentor.
Superman battered at it with his steel
fists and the octopus began to give.
(Continued on page 68)

RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRRON

^(Midau/

Gladys Swarthout's stunning voice and Deems Taylor's witty comments about music
make The Family Hour on CBS this afternoon something that's well worth listening to.

ON THE AIR TODAY:

The Prudential Family Hour, starring
Gladys Swarthout, Deems Taylor, Ross
Graham, and Al Goodman's orchestra, on
CBS this afternoon at 5: 00, Eastern Time,
sponsored by the Prudential Insurance Co.

The Family Hour likes to dramatize
the stories which lie back of the musical
numbers it presents — and, if nobody has
thought of it already, here's an idea for a
dramatic episode centering around the
Family Hour's own singing star.

At a recital given by a music teacher in
Deep Water, Missouri, some years ago, a
very small girl struggled manfully to sing
a very big and very difficult operatic aria.
Her name was Gladys Swarthout, she was
twelve years old, and she was singing this
particular aria at the annual recital
against her teacher's advice and wishes.
On a high note half-way through the song,
her voice broke and an unprofessional
and unmusical croak took the place of the
beautiful, rounded note the composer had
written. Gladys stopped singing. But
instead of retiring in a flood of tears she
stamped her foot angrily and told the ac-
companist, who was also her teacher, to
start playing the piece again from the be-
ginning. This time she sailed through the
song, hit the high note squarely on the
nose, and had the satisfaction of hearing
a round of applause from the audience.

That was the first public appearance of

the beautiful American girl who eventu-
ally became a leading star of the Metro-
politan Opera and radio. It was also the
first appearance of the determined, sink-
or-swim spirit that helped to make her
so successful. There just wasn't any stop-
ping the Swarthout girl. When she was
thirteen she put up her hair, gave her age
as nineteen, and applied for a job as con-
tralto soloist in a Kansas City church.
Maybe they didn't believe the statement
about her age, but they gave her the job
and that was the important thing.

Gladys made her Metropolitan Opera
debut after singing in Chicago movie
theaters and in Chicago opera. Her first
season at the Met she sang in fifty-six per-
formances, many more than any other
artist. In one opera she sang the part of
a boy (several operas traditionally cast
women in young boys' roles) and looked so
attractive in trousers, with her slim figure,
that it wasn't long before her nickname
was "the Met's favorite boy."

While studying in Florence, Italy,
Gladys met Frank Chapman, another
music student, and on their return to
America they were married. They gave
several joint recitals together, but lately
Frank has almost completely given up his
own career, devoting most of his time to
helping along his wife's. They're one of
New York's happiest married couples.

DATES TO REMEMBER

September 28: Daylight saving time ends, so if you've been on standard time all
summer tune in every network show an hour later. . . . The new season is under way,
with these broadcasts arriving today: The Shadow on Mutual at 5:30, Bulldog Drum-
mond on the same network at 6:30; the Pause that Refreshes going back to its old
time of 4:30 on CBS; Mrs. Roosevelt on NBC-Blue at 6:45; the Screen Actors Guild
show at 7: 30 on CBS; Captain Flagg and Sergeant Quirt, starring Victor McLaglen and
Edmund Lowe, on NBC-Blue at 7:30.

October 5: More new shows: William A. Shirer on CBS at 5:45; the Wheeling Musical
Steelmakers on NBC-Blue at 5:30; the Silver Theater at 6:00 on CBS; Jack Benny on
NBC-Red at 7:00; Helen Hayes on CBS at 8:00; and Sherlock Holmes, with Basil
Rathbone, on NBC-Red at 10: 30.

October 12: The New York Philharmonic Orchestra begins another season of broadcasts
this afternoon at 3:00 on CBS.

October 19: Two returning shows — the Lutheran Hour on MBS at 4:00 and the Metro-
politan Opera Auditions on NBC-Red at 5:00.

9:00
9:00

9:30
9:30
9:30

10:00
10:00

10:30
10:30

11:00
11:00
11:00

9:
9:

:00 10:
:00 10:

8:00
8:00

8:15
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9:30
9:30

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10:00

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11:30
11:30

12:00
12:00

12:30
12:30

1:00
1:00
1:00

00
00
00
00 8

Eastern Time

8:00 CBS: News

8:00 NBC-Blue: News

8:00 NBC-Red: Organ Recital

8:30 NBC-Blue: Tone Pictures
8:30 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

9:00 CBS: News of Europe
9:00 NBC: News from Europe

9:15 CBS: From the Organ Loft
9:15 NBC-Blue: White Rabbit Line
9:15 NBC-Red: Deep River Boys

9:30 NBC-Red: Words and Music

10:00 CBS: Church of the Air
10:00 NBC-Blue: Musical Millwheel
10:00 NBC-Red: Bible Highlights

10:15 NBC-Blue: Primrose String Quartet

10:30 CBS: Wings Over Jordan
10:30 NBC-Blue: Southernaires

11:00 CBS: News
11:00 NBC-Blue: News

11:05 CBS: Library of Congress Concert

30 NBC-Blue: Treasure Trails of Song

12:00 CBS: What's New at the Zoo
12:00 NBC-Red: Emma Otero

NBC-Blue: I'm an American

12:30 CBS: Salt Lake City Tabernacle
12:30 NBC-Blue: Radio City Music Hall
12:30 NBC-Red: Down South

1:00 CBS: Church of the Air
1:00 NBC- Red: Silver Strings

1:15 MBS: George Fisher

1:30 CBS: Syncopation Piece

1:30 NBC-Blue: Matinee with Lytell

2:00 CBS: Spirit of '41

2:00 NBC-Blue: Hidden History

2:00 NBC-Red: NBC String Symphony

2:15 NBC-Blue: Foreign Policy Assn.

2:30 CBS: News

2:30 NBC-Blue: Tapestry Musicale
2:30 NBC-Red: University of Chicago
Round Table

3:00 CBS: N. Y. Philharmonic Orch.

(Oct. 12)
3:00 NBC-Blue: JOSEF MARAIS

3:15 NBC- Red: H. V. Kaltenborn

3:30 NBC-Blue: Weekend Cruise
3:30 NBC-Red: Sammy Kaye

4:00 CBS: Walter Gross Orch.
4:00 NBC-Blue: Sunday Vespers

4:15 NBC-Red: Tony Wons (Oct. 5)
4:30 CBS: Pause that Refreshes
4:30 NBC-Blue: Behind the Mike
4:30 NBC-Red: Joe and Mabel ■

5:00 CBS: The Family Hour

5:00 NBC-Blue: Moylan Sisters

5:00 NBC-Red: Metropolitan Auditions

(Oct. 19)

NBC-Blue: Olivio Santoro

5:30 MBS: The Shadow

5:30 NBC-Blue: Wheeling Steelmakers

(Oct. 5)
5:30 NBC-Red: Roy Shield Orch.

5:45 CBS: William L. Shirer (Oct. 5)

6:00 CBS: SILVER THEATER (Oct. 5)
6:00 NBC-Red: Catholic Hour

6:30 CBS: Gene Autry and Dear Mom

6:30 MBS: Bulldog Drummond

6:30 NBC-Red: The Great Gildersleeve

NBC-Blue: Mrs. F. D. Roosevelt

7:00 NBC-Blue: News from Europe
7:00 NBC-Red: Jack Benny (Oct. 5)

CBS: Delta Rhythm Boys

7:30 CBS: Screen Guild Theater

7:30 NBC-Blue: Capt. Flagg and Sgt. Quirt

7:30 NBC-Red: Fitch Bandwagon

8:00 CBS: HELEN HAYES (Oct. 5)
8:00 NBC-Blue: Star Spangled Theater
8:00 NBC-Red: CHARLIE MCCARTHY

8:30 CBS: Crime Doctor

8:30 NBC-Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery

8:30 NBC-Red: ONE MAN'S FAMILY

8:55

9:00
9:00
9:00
9:00

9:30
9:30

10:00
10:00

CBS

Elmer Davis

CBS: FORD HOUR
MBS: Old Fashioned Revival
NBC-Blue: Walter Winched
NBC-Red: Manhattan Merry-Go-
Round

NBC-Blue: The Parker Family

NBC-Blue: Irene Rich
NBC-Red: American Album of
Familiar Music

NBC-Blue: Bill Stern Sports Review

CBS: Take It or Leave It
NBC-Blue Goodwill Hon

:i
9
9:00 10:00 NBC-Red: Hour of Charm

30 10:30 CBS Columbia Workshop
30 10:30 MBS Cab Calloway
SO 10:30 NBC-Red: Sherlock Holmes (it
00 11:00 > - Headlines and Bylines
00 11:00 NBC Dance Orchestra

INSIDE RADIO-The Radio Mirror Almanac-Programs from Sept. 26 to Oct. 23

NOVEMBER, 1941

MONDAY

11:00

8:30

11:15

8:45

9:00
9:00
9:00

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9:30

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11:30
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11:45
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11:45

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12:00

12:15
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12:30
12:30
12:30

12:45
12:45

1:00
1:00

3:00
2:00

2:30
2:30
2:30

2:45
5:45

8:55
3:15
3:30
3:45

3:45
8:00
4:00
8:00
8:15
4:15
7:30
8:30
7:30
9:00
8:15
8:30
5:00
8:30

5:55
6:00
6:00
6:00
6:00
6:30
6:30
7:00
7:00

11:15 12:15
11:15 12:15

11:30
11:30

Eastern Time

8:151 NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn
9:00 NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB

8:45
8:45

9:00 10:
9:00 10;
9:00 10:
9:15 10:

9:15 10:

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9:30 10:30
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9:45 10:45

00 11:
0011:
15 11:
1511:

3011:

30 11:
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4511:

00 12:
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7:00

7i30|

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7:55
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' :00
9:00
9:30

1:00
1:00

1:15
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5:00
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5:30
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5:45

CBS: Hymns of all Churches
NBC-Red: Edward MacHugh

CBS: By Kathleen Norris
NBC-Blue: Helen Hiett
NBC-Red: Bess Johnson

CBS: Myrt and Marge
NBC-Blue: Buck Private

CBS: Stepmother
NBC-Blue: Clark Dennis
NBC-Red: Bachelor's Children

CBS: Woman of Courage
NBC-Blue: Wife Saver
NBC-Red: The Road of Life

CBS: Treat Time
NBC-Red: Mary Marlin

CBS: The Man I Married
NBC-Red: Pepper Young's Family

CBS: Bright Horizon

NBC-Blue: Thinking Makes it So

NBC-Red: The Goldbergs

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories
NBC-Blue: Alma Kitchell
NBC-Red: David Harum

CBS: KATE SMITH SPEAKS
MBS: John B. Hughes
NBC-Red: Words and Music

CBS: Big Sister
NBC-Red: The O'Neills

CBS: Romance of Helen Trent
NBC-Blue: Farm and Home Hour

CBS: Our Gal Sunday

CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful
MBS: We Are Always Young

CBS: Woman in White
MBS: Government Girl
NBC-Blue: Ted Malone

CBS: Right to Happiness
MBS: Front Page Farrell

CBS: Road of Life
MBS: I'll Find My Way

CBS: Young Dr. Malone
NBC-Red: Light of the World

CBS:
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-
CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

CBS:

NBC-
NBC-

CBS:

NBC-
NBC-

CBS:
NBC-
NBC-

CBS:

NBC-
NBC

Girl Interne

Red: The Mystery Man

Fletcher Wiley
Blue: Into the Light
Red: Valiant Lady

Kate Hopkins

Blue: Midstream

Red: Arnold Grimm's Daughter

News for Women

Blue: Orphans of Divorce

Red: Against the Storm

Blue: Honeymoon Hill
Red: Ma Perkins

Renfro Valley Folks
Blue: John's Other Wife
Red: The Guiding Light

Lecture Hall

Blue: Just Plain Bill

Red: Vic and Sade

Richard Maxwell
Blue: Club Matinee
Red: Backstage Wife

NBC-Red: Stella Dallas

NBC-Red: Lorenzo Jones

NBC-Red: Young Widder Brown

CBS: Mary Marlin
NBC-Blue: Children's Hour
NBC-Red: Home of the Brave

CBS: The Goldbergs
NBC-Red: Portia Faces Life

CBS: The O'Neills
NBC-Blue: Adventure Stories
NBC-Red: We the Abbotts

CBS: Ben Bernie
NBC-Blue: Tom Mix

CBS: Edwin C. Hill

CBS: Bob Trout

CBS: Hedda Hopper

6:30 CBS: Frank Parker

6:45 CBS: The World Today

6:45 NBC-Blue: Lowell Thomas

6:45 NBC-Red: Paul Douglas

7:00 CBS: Amos 'n' Andy

7:00 NBC-Blue: This is the Show

7:00 NBC-Red: Fred Waring's Gang

7:15 CBS: Lanny Ross

7:15 NBC-Red: European News

7:30 CBS: Blondie

7:30 MISS: Tho Lone Ranger

7:30 NBC-Red: Cavalcade of America

8:00 CBS: Vox Pop

8:00 MHS: Cal Tinney

8:00 NBC-Blue: I Love a Mystory (Oct. 6)

8:00 NBC-Red: Tho Telephone Hour

8:30 CHS: GAY NINETIES

8:30 NBC-Blue: True or Falso

8:30 NBC-Red Voice of Firestone

8:SS CBS Elmor Davis

9:00 CHS: LUX THEATER

9:00 MliS Gabrlol Heattcr

•■ (in i ■- ' i.i,,. Basin Stroet Music

9:00 NBC-Red: Doctor I. Q.

9:30 NBC-Blue: News

9:30 NBC-Red: That Brewster Boy
10:00 ' I(S Orson Welles
10:00 MliS Raymond Gram Swing
10:00 NBC-Blue: Famous Jury Trials
10:00, NBC-Red: Contented Hour
10:30 NBC-Blue Radio Forum

Joe Julian plays Michael, hero
of the new Bright Horizon serial.

HAVE YOU TUNED IN...

Bright Horizon, the new daytime serial
on CBS Mondays through Fridays at 11:30
A. M., Eastern Time (rebroadcast at
11:00 A. M. Pacific Time), sponsored by
Lever Brothers.

Here is a lesson in how to make two
serial stories grow where only one grew
before. Several months ago a new char-
acter was introduced on Big Sister — a
young man named Michael West who
roamed around the country singing and
playing his guitar in restaurants and
taverns. Listeners liked Michael so much
that when the sponsors of Big Sister de-
cided to start a new serial program they
lifted him right out of his original story
and wrote a new story around him.

Michael is played by a young radio actor
named Joe Julian who is just as colorful
and unusual as his air character. Joe grew
up in Baltimore, where he used to get jobs
as a walk-on or extra in traveling dra-
matic companies that came to town. When
he grew up he went to work in a shoe
factory, learned all he could about mak-
ing shoes, then quit and set himself up in
the shoe-repairing business with the
money and the knowledge he'd saved up.
But he didn't really like shoe-making, so
after a while he sold out and came to
New York, where he joined the Group
Theater. A few small acting jobs on the
stage finally led him to radio, but he
didn't get ahead very fast until he wrote
a series of articles for "Variety," the en-
tertainment business' trade paper, criti-
cizing radio for all the things he thought
were wrong with it. The articles im-
pressed radio executives so much he's
been busy ever since.

Joe has several different talents. He
writes plays, although none of them have
been produced yet, and he can make music
by clasping his hands together and forcing
air out between the palms. However, he
can't sing, so all of Michael West's singing
is done by Bobby Gibson, the former
CBS page boy who determined to be a
singer instead, and did.

DATES TO REMEMBER

September 29: Frank Parker's Golden
Treasury of Song is on CBS at a new
time beginning tonight — 6:30. . . . Joe
Louis and Lou Nova will have every-
body in the country listening to their
fight over Mutual tonight at 10:00. . . .
The Tom Mix Straight Shooters adven-
ture serial returns tonight at 5:45 on
NBC-Blue.

September 30: Fibber McGee and Molly
return to the air tonight — 9: 30 on NBC-
Red . . . and the Treasury Hour moves
on to NBC-Blue at 8:00.

October 6: I Love a Mystery starts a new
weekly series on NBC-Blue at 8:00.

October 7: George Burns and Gracie
Allen are tonight's new arrivals, on
NBC-Red at 7:30. •

TUESDAY

I-"

Eastern Time

i/i
a!

i/i

8:15

NBC-Red: Gene and Glenn

8:00

9:00

NBC-Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB